While waiting for Wayfair customer service to pick up,

I'm sitting here typing stuff that I wouldn't be typing if I were actually doing anything productive.

And yes, I said Wayfair customer service. My newly-low-key-on-social-media self made the mistake of scrolling through Facebook earlier today and I discovered that there are human beings who exist who deeply believe in a conspiracy theory about Wayfair being involved in human trafficking. (By the way, I am not friends with these humans, but I am apparently friends with other humans who post Snopes links to try to disabuse humans they are friends with of these notions.) My brain broke. It's sort of like, there are literal, living, breathing people out there who find it easier to believe in wholly unfounded conspiracy theories than they do believing that wearing masks in public can help stop the spread of COVID.

But I digress. Wayfair is nonetheless problematic as heck, but my momma gave me a gift card there as a housewarming gift and you best believe I'm going to use it. Area rug and ottoman, where you at? But see what had happent was I ordered an area rug, and these chumps cancelled my order because I guess they were out of stock. But the problem was that I had used my gift card for part of the expense and the money was supposed to be returned to the gift card in 3-5 business days. We're now on Day 6. Put bluntly, where my money at? So, here I remain, in customer service hold limbo until Jesus comes back since they're experiencing "unprecedented" call volumes.

I can't believe I'll be 8 months pregnant this week. I know I've said it several times before, but this really went by fast. I'm at that stage where I can look down and see my belly rippling, contorting and bulging like an alien life form burrowed inside is using my body as a host. And isn't that essentially what pregnancy is? That's literally what it is...a separate life form using your body as a host until it, er, emerges.

I remember last time, I had arrived to the pushing stage and I was doing my thing and the doctor asked me if I wanted to reach down and feel the baby's head as it was emerging. I was like, Um, heck no, I do not. (I didn't say that, tho. I just shook my head and kept going.) But honestly, I guess maybe for some women it's like an encouragement or something, like, "See? You're almost there!" But for me, it was like, Um, would I like to touch my baby's freakish, bloody head as it is literally emerging from my body? No, thank you! Seriously. I get that it's different for everyone, I do. But for me, while trying to concentrate on expelling an entire human from my body through some pretty intense pain, touching a misshapen, bloody baby head is the last thing I'd like to do. But that's just me.

And yet, I signed up to do this thing again. This time, I'm making sure to have my bag packed though. Last time, I went into labor much sooner than I expected and had my husband throwing random stuff in the bag. A mess. This time I'm not taking any chances.

A chicken empanada, a cheese empanada and two tacos al pastor

is what I begged my husband to get me for lunch the other day. It's from an old beat up taco truck parked beside a Marathon gas station. The shabbier looking the food truck, the better the food. I think it's a law of ethnic food trucks. He took a while to come back with the goods because there was quite a crowd ahead of him. I'm not a foodie, but I know enough and have traveled enough to know the food is like, actually Mexican and not watered down for gringos, so I was surprised when my husband said the crowd ahead of him was all white people. Maybe I wasn't surprised, maybe I was more disappointed because I wanted there to be at least some brown people lined up for the food, which would have ensured its authenticity. And do rural white Kentuckians even know what anything on the menu aside from tacos even is? I mean, maybe y'all know about empanadas, but do y'all seriously know what's up with tortas, sincronizadas, huaraches and sopes? I need to stop being so judgmental and let people live. Can't fault folks for wanting more out of Mexican food life than Taco Bell. 

I got my bake on recently. I delivered fresh loaves of bread to my neighbors and baked a second batch and shared a loaf with one of my colleagues. Our sons were born 3 months apart and go to the same daycare. Sometimes when we drop off my son, he gets a little teary and my colleague's son gives him a toy to comfort him, which is adorable and sweet. My colleague told me that the other day her son said, "JoJo is my friend." Just the idea that a little boy considers my little boy his friend just made me well up with tears.