(Sing it, Frankie!)
I. Beaker reports that, at a party last weekend, four people (three female, one male—a former chair of my department!) independently said to him, "Emma's always so thin. I can't wait to see her pregnant."
II. My granite-like futon. My cotton sheets. All the pillows I could ever want.
IV. Temperatures in the 90's. Have I mentioned that my ankles don't swell in British Columbia?
V. No downstairs bathroom—hence, no shower. No kitchen counters, or cabinets, or dishwasher. Washer and dryer are hooked up, but the dryer vent must be threaded through a nearby window. Fridge and stove are hooked up, but the kitchen sink is some utility sink our contractor picked up, like, out of someone else's dumpster.
VI. Boxes and boxes and boxes. Boxes we shipped from California that Beaker has been ignoring. Boxes of useful books, yarn, and baby stuff I've been ordering on-line during my long lonely evenings here. Boxes from when we moved into the house five years ago, too, but we're used to those boxes by now.