The kitchen is the worst kind of disaster area with dirty dishes mounded up in the sink, tomato and greens stuck to the stove top and the floor a tracking of tomato juice and Crocs footprints on the linoleum. The Mister seems alternately aloof & discontent or sweet & tired. Maggie-the-(mini)van's battery is acting up, Friday morning's wonderful massage benefits seem in a land far away, and the teeniest amount of refined products ingested yesterday (no sugar!) have Ms. Booty's eyelids and hands and toes quite puffy this morning. Plus which, it's been melting level hot for days on end and Ms. Booty's Red Bitch Fricassee didn't get so much as an honorable mention at yesterday's Tomato Art Festival recipe contest (neither, I must say, did Jen's Killer Tomatoes -- reportedly FABULOUS-- nor Sue's I Adore A Pomadoro dressed pasta).
That's the morning's bitch list. It's hangover time. Hangover from all the prep, housekeeping and carry through of Thursday morning's interview. Hangover from a particularly (and in all truth, rare of late) rough day with the Mister on Friday-- try cranky-aloof meets cranky-hot-hormonal-needy. Hangover from shopping, prepping and cooking for the weekend's festivities including the brunch, the recipe contest and parading about the neighborhood to participate in said festivities at 8 months pregnant in near 100 degree heat with the humidity knocked up to East Jesus from a mid day thunderstorm. Whew.
Did I mention Ziggy's first costume in my parading about? He was, no surprise, a tomato. Daddy Booty grease makeupped the protruding in utero Zig as the fruit of the season and of the celebration. It was a hit, as folks couldn't keep their hands off it, nor their eyes either: my tarted up belly, that is. Many photos were taken and soon's they're available, they'll be posted right here. Sadly, Ms. Booty does not yet own a digital camera and is reliant upon the kindness of friends and strangers alike for these photos. (Thanks Jen, Jami and the lovely artisan family from Bowling Green for promising to send pics along).
A moment that tickled me fiercely was when I was approached by a festival goer and staff participant upon arriving at the Gallery with my recipe contest entry. First she asked if I participated in the neighborhood list serv to which I answered affirmatively. And then she took another gander and asked, in the most delicious southernese, "Are you Ms. Booty Homemaker?"
Why, yes. Yes, I am, I told her. It just cracked me up in the best way. So Ms. Lisa Cornwell-Collins, if you're reading this, thank you for speaking up and for providing me with a good giggle.
Today will be spent nursing my body and spirits back to balance, and achieving some kind of harmony here on the homefront-- mainly: getting the kitchen back to clean and working order & catching up on laundry; the Booty family has already taken their morning walk, visited the park and bathed Bert the dog, and in recognition of the extraordinary generosity of friends with regard to the babe's impending arrival, Ms. Booty is still writing thank you notes each morning. The Mister is off to work early at the radio station, and the day stretches ahead. Perhaps there'll be space made for a dip in the pool, even, though that'll depend on whether Maggie decides to start today or not. (My Beloved sometimes cranky Mister and I had to go fetch her using borrowed cables and vehicle late last night from where I'd abandonned her at the Festival....)
Ah, yes. This is August. At thirty four weeks pregnant. And this is the hangover from the day(s) after.
Draw a big round bellied woman, wavy lines of chaos surrounding her with an arrow pointing to a spot on which she stands:
You Are Here.