Gentle readers, you who do not wish to hear from the whiny pregnant woman, read no further.
But I am whiny. In fact, I am so whiny that the superhuman patience of my dear spouse has been exhausted and he has asked if, perhaps, I could whine just a little bit less. Like not all the time, maybe? Thanks.
A few months ago, my advisor asked what my plans were after I left. 'Take a few months off and bake cookies,' I said. He gave me a look of terminally extreme skepticism. 'I would think you'd be... really, really bored,' he said.
I regret to inform you that he was correct. We have now been in the Land of Cheese and Sausage for all of two weeks. In that time, I have: been to no fewer than twenty garage sales; walked perhaps 30 miles; hunted down and killed various appliances; unpacked everything but the sewing room; had a visit from my father; gone to a street fair; read thirty books; and watched ten hours just of Battlestar Galactica. And I am terminally bored. Going from working 60-70 hours per week to this makes me crazy. I need projects.
The problem is that I am also tired. It's not quite the bone-deep run-over-by-a-truck feeling of a month ago, but I can sleep 14 hours a day and still be tired. So I could sew a skirt. But I am tired. I could bake cookies. Or I could take a nap. Tired and bored: the worst.
Also, while I am whining, let me add that I get horribly nauseous unless I eat every 2 hours and I am beyond tired of eating. I like food, but this is ridiculous. And I have what must be round ligament pain. Second trimester? Check. Right side? Check. Feels like a pointy knife stabbing my pelvis? CHECK.
Pass the frickin' cheese.
