August 9, 1922
Yes. I now know what date it is. One of my main accomplishments for the week was to have FINALLY figured out what day it was. After discovering I was pregnant (it wasn’t the rotten peach…it was the healthy and invigorated sperm in combination with our enjoyment of acts that lead to procreation) and informing Mick of his upcoming fatherhood, he promptly zoomed over to see Mrs. Simmons at the mercantile about a calendar. He also asked her if they stocked any books about childbirth, and when he came home empty-handed except for the calendar and a look of desolate bummitude, I informed him that I didn’t particularly want to rely on 1922 birthing preparations and methodologies, thank you very much.
Mrs. Simmons had, however, sent him home with the latest edition of Pride and Prejudice. How this was supposed to prepare either he OR I for having a baby was beyond both of us, but since it stormed like the dickens that night thereby preventing him from working in any sort of outdoor capacity the following day, he read the book. Until that day in our future past, the man had never read a single work of fiction. If there weren’t numbers and letters cohabitating in unconventional and unnatural ways on each and every page, the man had no interest. Now here he was drowning in pathological and melodramatic romance while I watched in awe…and sipped the last of my merlot, Europeans do it while pregnant, so shut up.
So instead of plotting my pregnancy progress on the brand new calendar Mick had so responsibly just purchased, I instead wrote down in large lettering: Mick read a book that didn’t involve using his calculator! Okay, so the words kind of spilled over into the next day…
Diabloggical Me 