(The Wednesday Advice Smackdown seems to have settled into an every-other-week sort of schedule. I don't know why. I'm only the writing instrument through which the Smackdown flows. I don't ask questions. The Smackdown is firmly in charge and sometimes makes me feel not so safe in my own home but oh my God, please don't tell the Smackdown I said that.)
Did everybody see Lost last night? Holy living crap on toast.
Although I must say, the show DID help me make up my mind about one particular question that I've been pondering for awhile.
I have definitely decided not to give birth on a deserted island. I may not have my full birth plan mapped out yet, I may have only realized today that daycare waiting lists are seventeen months long, but I'm pretty sure I've ruled the whole birth-in-a-jungle option out.
Especially if the island's doctor is going to be too busy contemplating leg amputations and stuff so the baby gets delivered by a really whiny bank robber who cries a lot. And also, why didn't Jack tell her about the placenta? Kate probably didn't know about the placenta.
(Now you know what it's like to watch TV births with a pregnant woman who will literally ask about the placenta five times.)
Jason: I'M SURE THEY KNOW ABOUT THE PLACENTA AND IT WILL BE DELIVERED SAFELY OFFSCREEN.
Amy: BUT JACK DIDN'T TELL THEM ABOUT THE PLACENTA. ALSO, THEY NEED SCISSORS. IS CLAIRE GOING TO BREAST-FEED? WHAT IF SHE NEEDS STITCHES? THAT BABY IS EIGHT WEEKS OLD. DID KATE WASH HER HANDS?
(By the way, in case y'all missed my husband's rocktastic radio debut on Wednesday, he's got an MP3 of the segment on his site. And it's a weekly gig, because they love him and he's hot and he taught them all the word "foodgasm.")
(I am trying to bribe him into taking me to the studio one of these weeks and let me like, rate the bathrooms of the restaurants we visit or something. If there's one thing about the D.C. metro area that I'm a total expert on, it's where to find a clean toilet, preferably one that doesn't make you purchase anything to use it.)
(I just realized that about 75% of this entry has been written in parentheses.)
In other news, I am completely freaking the flying freak out about daycare. A dear friend of mine with two wee ones in the World's Most Perfect Daycare Center informed me this morning that I am officially cutting it too close if I hope to get my baby placed by January 2006. Which...shit. 15 weeks along and I'm already fucking up.
One place I blindly called today told me that while I certainly "could be in worse shape" in terms of their waiting list, there was no guarantee that I'd get a spot, but hey, we'll put you on the list (for free!) and keep you updated.
And I, so happy to hear anything vaguely encouraging, thanked them profusely and totally kissed ass and then hung up and realized that I have no idea how much this place costs or even if the infants are routinely caged up at a neighboring kennel for police dogs. It doesn't matter, because they said I was certainly calling sort-of early enough to give myself a snowball's chance in hell of getting in! I love them! They're perfect!
I'm so sorry, Babalah. Perhaps my job will let me keep you in a box under my desk for awhile. You just have to promise to be quiet and not be too smelly.