The image of Rob Lowe looking menacing while he tells his neighbor "I'm untouchable, bitch!" will amuse me for a very long time.
Determined to make the rest of my pregnancy as relaxing as possible for Tatum, I spent my Saturday snuggled up on the sofa watching four consecutive Lifetime movies. First there was one about a psychotic woman who was denied for the adoption process….so of course she takes it upon herself to drug and kidnap her pregnant roommate, lock her up at a remote family farmhouse, and attempt to convince everyone the girl disappeared. I know I can always trust Lifetime for fresh, original content. Next came a movie about Veronica Mars [oh that actress has a name?] where her mother was a junkie so she takes it upon herself to get legally emancipated and adopt her various half brothers. Then there was Drew Peterson: Untouchable, starring Rob Lowe. Perfect movie for the perfect network. Finally there was The Pregnancy Project [not to be confused with The Pregnancy Pact] where a senior who is a super student fakes her pregnancy as a ‘social experiment’ in order to obtain firsthand knowledge of the stigmas teen moms face. You already know the movie concluded with her big reveal of the fake bump in her school auditorium and the thunderous applause of her fellow students who felt terrible about judging her and will never judge another human being ever again and throw all stereotypes out the window from that point forward.
On a more serious note, I don’t think I’ve ever said much about Drew Peterson. We’ll save that post for another day as my mission is to prevent the heart rate and BP from elevating. What is it about arrogant scumbags with the last name Peterson? And, uh, ladies: if your new man wife ”drowned’ in a dry bathtub, that’s your cue to run screaming in the opposite direction. Perhaps most sickening about this entire thing is– much like that other Peterson– he has a large female following. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that if one wife is expendable….
A knock on my door jarred me from my bed rest reverie. Thank you to my chauffeur who took me to purchase a new cell phone. I opted for the $45 unlimited Straight Talk plan from Walmart because it seemed to be the most affordable option aligned with my cellular needs. While I didn’t purchase a smart phone– why spend the extra money when I’m never far from my laptop and digital camera?– it more than fulfills my needs. Only family, coworkers, and a few close friends will have the number. Legal calls and anything official can come to my house. These ten digits will be more heavily guarded than Fort Knox. 
I ended up talking on the phone for 2+ hours [this is unheard of for me] with Liv last night. Although we discussed the situation, it wasn’t in a stressful way– she commiserated, expressed outrage at the appropriate times, and offered meaningful insight. And then it was nice to just catch up and laugh. She informed me that Memphis no longer had strip clubs but bikini bars. We also chatted about funeral faux pas, my innovative [and foolproof!] method for banishing a stalker, her school, and other glorious topics.
Such overwhelming sadness and guilt permeates my atmosphere of relaxation. Need I even explain why I’m so heartbroken? And the guilt…I feel as though if I focus on staying calm for Tatum [as opposed to spending every second of my day actively trying to get Adam home] then I’m somehow betraying my son. This is yet another example of how my permanent location has been between a rock and a hard place since November 17th. Sigh.
24 days until Tatum arrives. <3
With infinite love, gratitude, and respect,
Sloane
