My poor husband.  My poor, over-worked, hardworking husband.  I say this with not even trace amounts of sarcasm because the poor guy’s become the de facto workhorse here at Casa de Mitchell thanks to my delicate condition.

I’m nesting in a bad way, and the only cure is not more cowbell but rather more sweat!  More projects!  Painting, sanding, scraping, caulking, re-arranging!  And it all must be done now!  How can we abide in a house with off-white door frames?!  What will the baby think when he comes home and the caulking around the bathtub is coming off?  Horrors!

Wes’ very generous (and talented, and funny) brother came over on Friday and Saturday to install our new windows and I have but one word for you: GORGEOUS.  Who knew our backyard looked like that?  When we look out the window in our bedroom, we can see things.  Things that have heretofore gone unnoticed thanks to the musty windows that had stood the test of 20+ years.

I’ll take a picture of the inside to show you later, but I can’t show you what the outside looks like yet because the trim around the windows has yet to be painted.  Apparently caulking takes time to set and dry?  And you can’t speed it up just by being hormonal and demanding?  And sometimes your husband can’t just dry caulking with his mind-powers, even if you get really good and grumpy about it?

Or something like that.

In an effort to sate our painting lust, Wes scraped the old paint off our exterior door frames and re-painted them.  It makes a big difference!  It’s amazing how less derelict your house can look without peeling paint coming off the doors.  Duh.

Wes is a good sport about it all, never complaining when I greet the end of one project with a list of several more.  I assure him that eventually the nesting will stop, when our baby is home and I’m too busy drowning in laundry and diapers to worry about house projects.  He nods, smiles, and doesn’t believe me at all.

I am in a tizzy.  In fact, I’m so riled up that not even homemade potato salad, a brownie, and a cranberry juice mocktail can calm me down.  Someone here at casa de Mitchell (Hint: It was neither Doc nor Squishy) ate not only the last of the potato chips but also the last of the ice cream while someone else was at work today.

Now, I’m not naming names, but just to be clear, that person may not be in possession of his/her eyebrows any longer so thorough was the rain of hellfire that descended upon him/her this afternoon.

On some base, philosophical level I’m a bit sad that the absence of potato chips and ice cream at our house is enough to trigger what may have been the screechiest conversation of my entire life.  I mean really, what am I?  Some kind of animal with no sense of shame or propriety, incapable of anything so complex as perspective and self-control?

On the other hand: Ruffles.

In other, less homicidal news, this weekend brought with it a very special occurence: Wes’ birthday!  He’s now living the last year of his twenties and we’re determined to do it up right.  We figure a career change and new baby ought to send his twenties off with a bang.  Heck, why don’t we buy a new house while we’re at it?  Let’s see how many changes and transitions we can cram into the last year of Wes’ twenties before he starts prematurely aging.

Oh my gosh, I think it really behooves me to stop typing now.  I’m obviously not over my chip-induced rage (Learn well, readers: Don’t ever assume a pregnant woman doesn’t want something.  If it’s salty, crunchy, sweet, cold, hot, or edible, chances are excellent she will cut you if you take the last one) so I’m going to hug the puppy until he passes out from a heat stroke or until I start feeling lovey-dovey again.

Obviously it needs to be noted that whoever ate the chips and ice cream is still awesome and completely cool.  I share this story not to make fun of the completely (un)anonymous person but, rather, to make fun of myself for how out of touch with reality and exceedingly ridiculous I’ve become.  Right then.  As you were.