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August 27, 2001

I'm going to see Madonna on Wednesday night. My cousin Cathy works for Miller and hooked me up with some box seats. I don't know what being in a box seat means, but my mom told me they'll probably have fresh shrimp available because they did when she used the box seats to see Frank Sinatra.

I was supposed to see Madonna in 1987, but my parents grounded me because I maybe, perhaps, possibly, came home drunk from someone's high school graduation party. I'm not sure how she knew I was drunk, but perhaps putting Peggy's pink Reeboks in the washing machine at 2:00 a.m. was a little indicator. Anyway, I'm still a little upset with my mom about that. I mean, it was Madonna...there would be plenty of other chances to catch me drunk and punish me in the future. Why couldn't she have stopped me from seeing Mr. Mister or Wham!?

Colleen is going with me to the concert, and don't let anyone tell you she's not excited. First she was excited about the amount of money we are spending on the tickets. Then she became excited about the fact that we're going and most of the free world isn't. Now she's worked up about what sort of new outfit to doll herself up in. Colleen is always down with the trends, and she dresses much sassier than I. My nephew Danny told her approvingly, "You're a real Millenium Girl!" and while I don't know what that means, I do know that he didn't say it to me.

So yeah, it's going to be Colleen, Madonna, and 32-weeks-pregnant me.

Determined not to look dowdy, I headed out to the most hideous mall on the planet to shop for some new threads: Gurnee Mills. I think if I get caught sneaking into Woodfield again, I will be stopped by the Reality Police.

"Look. Weren't you just here? And you didn't find what you were looking for? Well, you know what? It hasn't materialized since Saturday. You'd better just move along."

Luckily, I was able to find a suitable white blouse at the Motherhood Maternity outlet to go with my borrowed phunky phresh flared jeans from Ericka, so I think I'm ready to eat fresh shrimp and sit in my box seats like a prince.

The only question that remains is...what to put on my swollen dogs? Every time I put on any sort of strappy sandals, my feet end up bulging out of them within minutes and by the end of the day they look like little pasty meat pies. "Just buy your shoes bigger," my pregnant friends tell me, but when you're a size 11 to begin with, how much bigger can your shoes get?

Colleen took me to register for my baby showers last month. Andy wasn't invited. We don't need to divorce before Quinn is even born.

To prepare for the event, I printed out tables and articles and charts from Consumer Reports, read them, highlighted them, and made color-coded notations. I organized everything I'd need (the reports, the Pottery Barn Kids catalog with my bedding page post-it noted, several lists of sample registries, and...I think that's it.).

Colleen was patient with my paperwork for awhile...until we got to the car seat aisle. I couldn't find anything that Consumer Reports had recommended, and I made her walk up and down the aisle several times, checking each model against our list. I thought we were getting good at it, as we had just done the same thing in the stroller aisle. Finally, I had to sit down to rest, and Colleen took off to make another round.

"Here," I called, waving my car seat printouts at her. "Don't forget the printouts!"

"You can take those printouts," she told me, "and shove them up your ass!"

God bless her.

I love to look at my registry online. Not only can you see a description of what I picked, but you can see pictures, too! If you want to look at my pretty baby things, the registries are here and here. (This is not a call for gifts. Please just look at the pictures and imagine a fat little baby enjoying herself in all of that equipment.)

Come quick, Quinny! We're just about ready for you!