Thirty-six weeks and no baby.

Yes, I know, most babies are born between 38 and 42 weeks, and most first babies tend to be born around 41 weeks, so there's no reason to think I'd have my baby now. Except, of course, I know people who had their babies at thirty-six weeks.

And I am filled with envy of them.

Plus which, my doctor made the mistake of telling me the story (now elevated to legend) of the Woman Who Came in at 36 Weeks and Said she Felt a Little Crampy and Turned Out to Be Eight Centimeters Dilated (and yes, it was her first baby. I asked). So of course I went bopping in for my appointment last week with this fantasy (never articulated, but very detailed) of how I'd hop up on the table and the doctor would say, "My goodness! You're eight centimeters! Let's go have a baby!"

Well, not so much. Although, the nursery is still a home office, the car seat is still in its box, the only diapers in the house are the sample-pack of Pampers that came in the mail, and I've still got work to do on Book 3, so I should probably be careful what I wish for.

Meanwhile, Joe Weiner has finally landed an interview with my Mom. War or peace? Window or aisle? Will we be stopping at McDonald's? All the answers are here.

And my husband Adam and I have been wondering -- whatever happened to same-sex commitment ceremony announcements in the Times? They haven't printed one since January. Are gays just not committing any more? Adam's theories are here.

Jen