Here in the purgatory of waiting and waiting, I decided to conduct life as usual and see if THAT brought about a baby. I've already wasted three weeks of maternity leave with my wild, wacky emotions about this whole overdue business. Last night, I was even sure I was in labor and gave up precious sleep to emote about it.
Putting that aside, it IS Christmas and we HAVE been crafting over here (in between nervous breakdowns, of course). I'll upload the pictures after I type awhile about something that has weighed on my heart.
Yesterday, my husband was parked behind me in our narrow driveway. Only it wasn't his vehicle, it was the TRUCK, borrowed to go hunting for a Christmas tree. Now, the truck is a stick shift. The truck being stick shift made me consider something about myself I thought rather odd: I don't know how to drive a stick shift.
I qualify to drive a stick shift truck. I am, a. Living in Kentucky b. descended from a long line of people who totter between redneck and hillbilly and c. have an illustrious family history that includes (but is not limited to) alcoholism, chicken fighting, jail, wife-beatin', honky-tonk-cheatin', and cigarette smoking. We have good things, too, like going to church and pushing food. But those don't qualify you to drive a stick.
You should totally believe everything you hear in a country song, especially ones by Merle or Loretta.
So, sadly, I had to rely on my husband to move the truck. He came from a St. Matthews, professional family. He knows how to drive a stick. Go figure.
Alright, artsy posts coming up!