If I Were Pregnant Right Now, My Sofa Wouldn’t Smell Like Beer

I know I’ve been quite absent from the blogging this week.  It isn’t just that nothing is going on with me, reproductively speaking(except I guess the long-awaited signs that my never-ending period may actually be ending after all) – though that is part of it.

Actually, I have been doing work while at work the last few days, instead of reading blogs and posting posts and Googling the benefits of vitamin B6.  It’s weird.  For one thing, I’ve been trying to get some things taken care of before I go off to Archives Camp.  Also, my boss’s all-consuming panic over his special project, culminating in a reception last night with lots of notable personages I’ve never heard of before and a commencement address this morning, has been inspirational/infectious.  Plus he’s been having me do silly things like try and fit a crystal bowl into a satin-lined cookie tin.  And maybe – just maybe – the neurosis is receding as I’ve started my Summer Break.

Additionally, my social calendar has been quite absurdly busy for a regular work week.  When I’ve finally made it home at night, I’ve been exhausted and haven’t had the attention span for blogging.

Instead, I’ve been working on a knitting project for my friend JL’s baby shower during the hour or two between making it home and going to bed the past several evenings.  Which brings me to the title of this post; this little story is not really all that relevant to having babies, but if you squint really hard there’s a tangential connection, and anyway I don’t really like blog posts that say “Hey I’m still alive” but don’t say anything else.  So, here we go.  Wednesday night, we had Comedy Central on, I’m on the couch knitting up a critter belly, and Hubs asks if I would like a beer since he’s getting one for himself.  Every time I consider drinking alcohol since we’ve started trying, I have to think about it for an extra second, and remember what Calendar Day I’m on to determine the appropriate level of guilt that would be associated with the prospective beverage.  Not so during my Summer Break; and so I have been boozing it up like a college freshman (I mean, you know, as much as a responsible adult can who has to be at work at 8am five days a week).

Anyway, he brings me a beer.  Now, we have a small house that restricts our furniture options, so often when watching TV, our beverages are perched on our respective sofa arms.  You may see where this is headed.  If I add the fact that our cat also likes to sit on the arm of the sofa next to me, then the story writes itself.

Indeed.  A flick of her tail, and a deluge of cold amber ale hits my side followed shortly by the thud of the bottle.  Instinct jerks my knitting project out of my lap before I even grab the beer bottle, but it’s too late to save all of the yarn.  Plus I snap a size 2 double pointed needle (one of the casein ones! my favorites!) in the commotion.  Hubs has paper towels in hand in a matter of second.  He mops up the sofa cushions while I stand useless, my ass totally and comically soaked, bemoaning my knitting casualties.  Daniel Tosh is on the TV, mocking me in HD.

My mental recap: Frigging cat!  And I just got that stain out of this shirt!  I’m glad we bought all those extra paper towels. Is this what having a toddler will be like?  Maybe our habits need some adjustment.  Damn it, Hubs’s beer was just as precarious as mine!  Why am I always the one that spills?   And damn it, if I could have just gotten pregnant by now, I wouldn’t have been drinking that beer in the first place!  This is my uterus’s fault!

Fortunately the already-knitted part of my project was mostly spared – a couple of drops that were readily absorbed by paper towels, no visible marks.  This is when I congratulate myself because I always buy machine washable yarn for baby shower gift projects, so I’ll run it through the wash before I wrap it up.  I have enough of that yarn in unscathed skeins to finish the project, too, so it could definitely be worse.  Can you imagine, though?  “Congratulations, JL, here’s your gift!  What’s that?  Your adorable handmade stuffed critter reeks of malt and hops?  Your precious baby got intoxicated from sucking on the toy’s soft little tummy?  That sure is odd.”  Yeeaah.  That’d be great.