My Tuesday nights out have been reduced to Michael Jackson and toothpaste at Target

I ventured out of the diva cocoon to go to the doctor's. He was running behind, and I found myself sitting next to a skinny drug rep with a bag full of Ortho Novum samples which I almost reached into and threw them to women around the room shouting, It's too late for me, but save yourselves!

But I didn't. Instead, I just timed my contractions on my cell phone wondering how much closer they had to be before I asserted myself to the front of the line. (7 minutes but if they went to 6 I was knocking over anyone who was there just for a pap smear.)

When I finally got in to the exam room, the nurse had to pause taking Oscar's heartbeat for a big contraction to pass. We breathed through it together, and I felt a little vindicated that I had a witness.

The diagnosis was the same, however. Longer is better, gravity is not your friend, and Thriller, was the best album Michael Jackson ever made. (You don't control the conversation when you're in the stirrups, people.)

So what exactly does this mean? Well, if I want Oscar to be on a breathing machine, then I can start the jumping jacks now. If I would like to increase the odds against that, then wait a few more days until I feast on the chicken parm and calisthenics...

*****

Since I was out, I cheated a little more. I decided that I deserved a pedicure since I haven't been able to reach my own toes in 5 months. Let me tell you, it was worth the abdominal pain. It's amazing how a foot massage and a coat of "Dutch Tulips" can brighten one's general outlook.

****

I cheated even more and went to Target to start stocking up on Easter fare, and now as I write this I feel as though the afternoon just caught up to me so I'm back to horizontal for a few days. I need to finish the boring novel I'm halfway through and there are a few episodes of "My Super Sweet 16" that I need to catch up on.

Toodles.