One year ago today we purchased our first home. You’d think we’d celebrate by barbecuing or sitting on our deck, but instead we’ve decamped to Cape Cod for five days.

Five lovely, sunny days full of awesome food, gorgeous views and happy, delicious-smelling gays. I love me some P-town. 🙂

They started on our basement today, jackhammering through the concrete to lay French-type drains around the perimeter. This would be fine if I wasn’t here, or was able to sit on the porch, but a) I’m blocked in and EVERYONE thought I should stay here to supervise (although it’s not like I’m going downstairs, but whatever) and b) the porch is 80 degrees, like the damn outside.

So I’m in the living room with the lovely air conditioner and the overwhelmingly loud sound of jackhammers—so loud, in fact, they’ve knocked over a painting, knocked some stuff off a coffee table and have sent the dog into spasms.

I present, for your listening pleasure, the music of the next three days: Sounds from the Basement.

(Mind you, it’s way louder when not recorded through your laptop’s microphone.)

Today it is 87 degrees, well on it’s way to being way-too-fucking-hot-to-live, and so the Chop is celebrating Father’s Day by sitting on the couch in front of the air conditioner. It’s supposed to be high 80s all week, which really sucks when you’re pregnant.

The Peanut has gotten very good at kicking regularly now, and slowly but surely, my belly button is getting shallower—which is really bizarre. I read an article the other day about how, yes, a lot of women love pregnancy, but a lot of women really hate it. It’s uncomfortable, painful, hot and irritating—and yeah, I think I fall into group B. Pregnancy? Not my favorite thing. I’m looking forward to having a baby, but the nine months wait time is a pain in the freaking ass.

An old friend of ours recently had a pre-eclampsia event that resulted in her delivering by C-section right around 29 weeks (she was four weeks farther along than me). The baby is doing great, no longer intubated I believe and now that he’s a week old, about 2 lbs. I know it’s stressful for them, but part of me thinks, hmm, early delivery might not be so bad.

My goal is 35 weeks—the doctors have discussed inducing me a bit early depending on my liver—which means I have 10 weeks to go. 10 of the hottest weeks of the summer, sigh, 10 weeks where I have to ideally finish four major projects. Ugh.

One of the worst things about moving one year and getting pregnant the next? Cravings.

In college I became addicted to nime chow, an Asian soft roll, with shrimp, bean sprouts, etc., and the most amazing vinegar-type sauce with peanuts. Sadly the only two restaurants that I’ve ever found who carry it… an hour+ away. Fortunately there’s a branch of one of those restaurants about 30 minutes away, but after a day of working, 30 minutes seems like forever.

Then there’s two of our favorite restaurants in Newport, both eclectic, one with more Mexican flavors—the best fish tacos of all time. Chop’s mom was in town last weekend, so after a lighthouse tour on a boat (surprisingly, I did not get sick—go baby), we ended up over there, Chop in tears as he ate some incredibly hot jalapenos.

My goal every weekend is to convince Chop that going south for dinner (or lunch), is a great idea. I’ve only succeeded once, lol. An hour and a half, he says, for dinner? I guess if you really want, but let’s get all this done first. Stuff which ends up taking most of the day and by 4PM, I’m ready for a nap.

Word to the wise, don’t move and get pregnant right away. You will be sooo sorry, lol.

Early this week our dog killed a bunny.

Chop asked me last night why I hadn’t blogged about it, and I laughed—busy with work, blah blah. But the truth is, I’m still just so freaking disturbed by it.

He had taken her to the store (she loves the car) and on the way back in, two bunnies were bounding on the path. To our great surprise, she managed to grab one. Chop says she dropped it right away, but it was a baby (not much bigger than my hand, and I have tiny-Burger-King-commercial hands), and it didn’t make it.

By the time I got outside, it was in it’s death throes (seriously, so disturbing). So I picked it up (baby bunnies? soft, warm, cutest things alive) and we carried it to the backyard to bury it.

The rest of the evening was spent with me looking at the dog and thinking “bunny killer!” — I know she didn’t mean to, and I know it’s in dog’s nature, but still… tiny. baby. bunny. Pregnant-with-crazy-hormones over here doesn’t do well when cute little babies die.

Presently she is sleeping harmlessly on her bed, no hint of a killer in her cute puppy face, glad that it’s no longer blazingly hot and humid.