On Sunday afternoon, my cat brought a mouse into the house, which sounds really hilarious and Seussian, I know, but which was in fact totally disgusting. The mouse wasn't quite dead—actually, it wasn't even nearly dead; it was pretty much just, like, a normal live mouse that my cat had picked up in her mouth in the backyard and decided to transport into our living room, as though the mouse had heard I was watching this particular episode of House Hunters in there and wanted to see which property they chose in the end—and so it was squeaking and squealing and at one point it managed to escape from the cat's mouth and RUN AROUND MY LIVING ROOM, and yes, I know, I am sorry, I am well aware that writing in all caps is something of a blogger cliche, but come on, A LIVE MOUSE.
What do you suppose I did in this situation? Well, I will tell you: I screamed a few times and then I jumped up onto an armchair and then I jumped down from the armchair quickly to grab my cell phone, and then I called Sean and said something like oh my god, I can't believe what a cliche I am, standing up on this armchair like this, but also mouse in the house, mouse in the house, when are you coming home?
Yes, I was a real paragon of capability and bravery.
In the end, I got down from the armchair long enough to chase the cat—mouse, at this point, firmly restored in her mouth—down the stairs and back out into the garden, where I unceremoniously slammed the door shut and didn't open it again until I was sure she had disposed of the mouse in some way or another (look, I won't ask any questions, cat, just don't let me see it again), and then I let her back in again and grounded her for a week. Also, I took away her phone privileges and wouldn't buy her that Abercrombie & Fitch shirt she'd been begging me for.
Speaking of shirts—well, sort of—I wanted to thank you for all your advice on maternity clothes, and especially for the swift kick in the pants to go get some elasticated pants, which I did after the twentieth person had extolled the virtue of the stretchy waistband, and lo, they were wonderful for about three hours (so roomy! no zippers! like sweatpants that look like jeans!) and then I regretted them deeply because I had bought them from the Gap and they started to bag and sag and generally look really awful and shapeless, and by the time I got home, I am convinced they were a full two sizes bigger than they had been when I'd bought them, which is not a good look for anyone, but especially not a woman who is five months pregnant and is already feeling sort of frumpy. And so I called the Gap and asked about the return policy, and they were sweet clothing angels from heaven and gave me a full refund on them and were genuinely just really charming and lovely, which was great and everything, but the upshot of all this is that now I still have no maternity pants.
But oh, it was a brief and wonderful taste! I have since ordered the dark wash skinny jeans from Old Navy, upon the advice of several people, and have also made a list with all your suggestions about Japanese Weekend and H&M and A Pea in the Pod, and now that I know exactly what I've been missing, I am eager to get back into that elasticated heaven tout de suite.
In the meantime, however, I have added another clause to my No Leggings In Public rule, which was already modified a year ago to include "....unless you're taking an international flight" and has now been corrupted even further to feature "....or unless you're pregnant, in which case, girl, CARTE BLANCHE." Luckily, this Wednesday I will have cause to invoke both clauses, as I am off to London for a work trip—where it is also mercifully cold enough to wear glorious, stretchy tights—and so if you see me at the airport or on the plane, please do not think you need to alert the Fashion Police, because I am well aware of my transgressions. The pile of trashy magazines I'll be reading, however? Okay, yes, you can feel free to call me out on that.