This is officially getting ridiculous.

The other night I was trying to call the dog to let him out. "Wendell!" I yelled. No dog. I tried again. "Wendell!"

Adam looked over and started cracking up. "What's so funny?" I asked, a little grumpily (you, dear reader, would sound a little grumpy, too, if you'd been waking up each and every night with the Heartburn of Death).

"Jen," said Adam. "He's standing right underneath you."

I stepped back. I looked down. And there was Wendell, merrily wagging his tail.

You have to understand that at this point in the game (37 weeks tomorrow), my feet and their environs are basically a myth. I know they're there. I believe in them. I just haven't seen them in a while.

In spite of the vanishing dog, and my husband's bemusement at same, we had a really nice weekend. On Friday I snuck off and saw "Bend it Like Beckham," which was terrific -- funny and sweet and heartwarming and empowering and all. Yesterday Adam and I saw "Spirited Away," which was wonderful in a very different way -- strange and trippy and magical and disturbing (and disturbingly similar, in some ways, to the book I'm working on now, only my heroine is thirty-three instead of ten, and Jewish instead of Japanese, and there's a lot less vomiting).

And then today I went for a walk in the woods with my friend Lisa and her nine-month-old baby Jack, who I think is now my baby ideal. He's round and cheerful, and he laughs a lot, and checks out the world -- dogs and people and peach yogurt. Best of all, he seems perfectly amused by his own feet. At lunch he took his time divesting himself of his sock, and then he looked down at his feet and made this screech of sublime appreciation: You again! Then he put his sock in his mouth. It was excellent. I only hope I'm as blessed in the baby temperament department.