I'm only 20 weeks in and I'll regret saying this eventually, but I can't bitch too much about pregnancy. The morning sickness was mild while it lasted and is gone now. I've gained 8 pounds, all in my gut, but, with the days I've spent with a fork surgically implanted in my mouth, I'm suprised it's not more. The worst I can say is that I'm challenging the structural integrity of my lingerie, which doesn't seem to bother any of the members of my household named Devon.
Summary of my first two weeks in Colorado:
The cats are alive. The jury is still out on the plants, which didn't handle the trip well. I rammed into one pole, with minor vehicular damage, but that pole was an asshole, and I'll do it again if it doesn't shut its stupid whore mouth. I'd feel worse if Devon hadn't backed into the pole directly behind it a few days before. Some sadist thought it was a good idea to fill our parking garage with poles and bike racks. It's like slalom skiing, but with hybrids and Subarus.
The homeless in New York trap you on the train and try to convince you that Jesus would want you to give them a dollar. The homeless here flash artsy signs at intersections and get all up in your grill when you're walking. There are about two blocks of Colfax that are really sketchy. Like, I'm all, "Fine, fine, fine, this is fine, WHERE'S MY FUCKING PEPPER SPRAY, fine, fine, this is fine."
Being here doesn't feel entirely real. I don't quite have a life here yet. I have a facsimilie of a life. And that's OK. It'll take months, maybe years, to feel like I'm home. But in the meantime, it's kind of like watching a TV show about this pregnant chick who moves from New York to Colorado with her husband and two cats. I need a soundtrack. Something by John Williams.
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