The cops were very nice. They couldn't haul her away or anything, but they did go down to talk to FCN - which she welcomed avidly as a chance to let the authorities know about our drug-making operations. After they left, she kept banging around down there. We heard her gloating under our bedroom, muttering about how the cops were going to find us out and we'd finally get it. In a way it was even creepier than the screaming.

We weren't evicted, by the way. We told Peter that we'd be leaving within 90 days and he didn't actually have papers to serve us anyway. It was just another crazy threat from the mistress of crazy threats. If we end up leaving before December 31, we'll get a chunk of money back, and although I couldn't care less about saving money at this point, it's nice to know that we won't be forfeiting hundreds of dollars renting an unrentable apartment over a psychopathic bitch.

Right now my parents are working like hive insects on the basement. We'll be in there as soon as they can paint the walls and get flooring down, but I don't see that happening before Hallowe'en. Meanwhile, we can't sleep. I took a personal day today because the thought of going into work on a few hours sleep and coming home at 9:40 p.m. to an eviction notice blew my gaskets. Instead I went to a midwife appointment, had a big greasy breakfast with my mom and then drove back to Brampton for a long nap. Tonight I mark, and there's some little good do-be part of me that wishes for the rest the marking pile still at school. But you can't call in "crisis" and then come in for your work. Doesn't look right.

News from the womb: Sprout's head has started to descend, going a few inches into my pelvis. I know that sounds weird & gross, but trust me when I say it's reassuring to know that the Sprout seems to have given up any plans to be a rebel breech baby. Today we heard his/her heartbeat with the 'scope for the first time, which was very cool. And I still - STILL - haven't gained a pound since August. My mom says that I'm using all the anti-dep weight for the baby, but I can't say that I enjoy the thought of a baby composed of anxiety and butter oatmeal cookies. Sounds like a performance art piece more than anything.

Given the FCN situation, I've decided to abandon the idea of a home birth. It really pisses me off that I can't script the birth EXACTLY THE WAY I WANT IT, but I suppose I'm not in competition with anyone. Instead, we're registered at a Gomorrah hospital where the midwives have full privileges. It's nice to think that I won't be handed over to a strange & contemptuous OB/GYN (as happened to Samuel & his wife in July). My only problem now is our anticipated move; if we're in B-ton, I need to find a space in Toronto where I can labour. Location is important because Hectate can't travel outside the city for professional reasons. Current ideas include my dad's brother's house, Dirk's basement, and a hotel room. I know. It's not filling me with joy, either. I can't wait to ask them: "Can I spent an indeterminate number of hours crouching and squatting in your house? I'll try to keep the screaming to minimum and I promise to wear pants as long as I can..."

I suppose I'm making a big deal out of nothing. Sure, it would be better to labour in a secure environment like, um THE HOME FOR WHICH I'M PAYING TOO MUCH GODDAMNED MONEY TO BE HARASSED LIKE A DICKENSIAN ORPHAN, but in reality it's not going to be a huge deal. I just have to let go of the idea that I could engineer a birth in the same way as I plan a house party. In fact, the hospital birth could make things a lot simpler - suddenly I don't have to have so many people in my livingroom while I squirt out the precious Sprout (scion to many fortunes). They can all eat vending machine food and leave me alone and like it.

2 years ago today: goth night in hali