There is a need

I casually mentioned to Greg the other night that I was in the market for a chamber pot, and for whatever reason he balked.

I got a long, sideways glance, then he smiled and said, "uh, no."

To which I replied, "Uh, yeah. It's either in the pot or in our bed."

You see, I have a bladder problem. Well, not so much a problem but a nagging suspicion that my bladder has been misplaced ... or repurposed as an auxiliary liver or something. Either way, it's on the fritz. Last night I got up to pee, no foolin', 12 times. Twelve times.

When we first toured the Finger, I had some initial reservations despite its overall appeal:

1) No dishwasher. We cook too damn much. We aren't home enough. It's a pain in my ass. Farmer Landlord eventually caved and one is currently being installed.
2) The rent. Our collective creativity and Greg's negotiating skills made short work of that.
4) The fact that the guest bedroom walk-in closet leads to a barn loft full of hay bales (now) and drying onions and garlic (late summer). Farmer landlord said it's not hay, it's straw, so little risk of allergies / vermin inhabitants; friend/coworker Jen said drying onions and garlic don't smell. She had them in her living room last year and some accidentally composted on a sheet she uses for a background scrim for her photography. It looks like a shit stain. Awkward conversations arise with photo subjects. But that was her only problem with them. And I have no use for scrims. But back to the matter at hand...
5) The one bathroom is located on the first floor, bedrooms are on second. And no solution to this one, lest you go down the chamber pot road.

And I'm going.

I have my reasons, people. There's the bladder thing, the not-wanting-to-wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing, the precautionary bed-to-toilet vomit path awareness thing, and of course, the parable of Beth.

One of my best friends, Beth, broke both ankles descending her stairs in the wee hours while seven months pregnant. Baby Gus turned out better than fine, and I'm not pregnant, but it was a giant hassle and I'd rather avoid that possibility altogether. She misjudged where the last step was at a time of a comprised equilibrium and a certain abscess obstructing her view; I would just smell the stairs and wind up with a concussion. That's how I do.

So, after consulting with knowledgeable, supportive friends and family, I have made the decision that may save me my ankles, comfort and mattress pad, but could cost me my dignity, the respect of my husband, and $29.99.

Please weigh in.

As an addendum, I must say that I'm not planning on keeping the chamber pot in our bedroom. It will be across the hall in the guest bedroom so Greg doesn't have to watch me urinating into a glorified gravy boat at 4 a.m. AND I promise to empty and clean it daily.

Give me some credit. I'm not a monster.

Having writ

We signed a lease on a house yesterday.

In that lease were the standard demands. Thou shalt pay thine rent on time. Thou shalt not trash the joint. Thou shalt pipe down.

Thou shalt till my fields in exchange for a lower price.

Creativity plus destitution equals contemporary rural new england sharecropping. Greg told our landlord he wasn't afraid of a little hard work, I told him I had an unhealthy obsession with vegetables. He licked his chops. And here we go.

Our current home, a dumpy duplex, is the sort of place I'd be pumped to live in, in college. A roll-y dishwasher? Low-ply carpeting? Easy-care linoleum? A lock on the guest bedroom? Heaven?? But as an adult, having experienced the joys of homeownership and hardwoord floors, this ain't cutting it. Plus, they painted part of the kitchen gold. And there are no closets. Get me the hell out of here.

The Moving Finger, the name of our new home (I'll get into that later), may also have a roll-y dishwasher, plus a potential and likely rodent problem, plus the preponderance of handles and steadies only found in the former digs of an impressively-aged senior, plus a pink bathroom sink, but it is leaps and kitchen counters ahead of this hole.

We move in a month. Farm work begins shortly thereafter: planting, transplanting and other such farm labors.

For context, I grew up in suburban Chicago. I wear eye makeup. We have fine china.

I own a Fendi bag.

(Granted the latter was a gift from a generous friend, but I move to sustain the juxtaposition)

I just gave the dogs a bath, which entitled me to a break in our day of cleaning, so I start this with beer in hand and Madlib on the stereo, daydreaming about what joys and hassles await us in three short weeks.

The Moving Freaking Finger, people.