Million little feces

I’m in my 33rd week now, and the only thing that made the pregnancy halfway bearable (holiday) is now finished. So it’s back to sleepless nights and stressful days of work, at least for another three weeks. In the meantime, I’m trying to forget about symptoms like breathlessness, a drum-tight belly that feels like it will burst, acid reflux and constipation like never before. I’d be a hot date, I tell you, if I could only fit my dancing shoes.

Things at work are bordering on farce now, with freshly redundant colleagues sending scathing emails to the entire division and a general uncertainty about Who’s on first, What’s on second and Where do I report to when he/she gets laid off. Part of me feels glad that I’m experiencing these revelations remotely, from the (dis)comfort of my sofa, but the camaraderie would certainly take the edge off not knowing what’s around the next corner.

As it stands, I am doing the honourable thing: keeping my head down and trying not to give them even the barest elements of a rope (cotton?) I could hang myself with. High branches and stepladders interest me not in the slightest, nope, not I.

I managed to accomplish quite a bit last week – apart from my visit, I also overcame my fear of city streets and commerce, leaving the house every day to buy a gingerbread latte from that coffee giant we all know and love (to hate to love) or eat lunch in a restaurant or just go for walks. I finally finished David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, which I started about four years ago and deigned to pick up again recently. Now I’m onto the latest James Frey novel, which begins with an irritating disclaimer that nearly put me off my first experience with the author.

No one ever accused James Frey of inaccuracy, so we can go ahead and dismantle that straw man. Getting the facts wrong and making stuff up entirely are two different matters, and you and I both know how a little embellishment can sometimes seem a delicious proposition for autobiography – except that we have too much respect for the integrity of truth! And also for our ability to make a tale good regardless. Events are difficult enough to interpret without the added distraction of fabrication, so let’s just call a spade a spade and see if we can keep from burying ourselves with it, yes?

It’s a good read so far, though the disclaimer has me questioning whether or not the historical backbone of the story (City of Los Angeles – an overview!) is made up, or partly made up, or what have you. (It’s your bed, Mr. Frey, so get comfortable.)

Anyway, I’m not sure where I’m going with any of this and the battery is about to drain away on my laptop, so you lucked out of a few more pointless paragraphs. Call me uninspired, but never let it be said that I’m a liar.