i'm pretty sure they hired someone to write up these emails who is just having fun fucking around with pregnant ladies. i mean, they've sent me the drawing of a woman who is supposed to be on the first day of her third trimester and, apparently, she has opted to have all of her internal organs removed in order to contain her english hothouse cucumber while barely causing her belly to project beyond her normal waistline.
yes... the fat is under the baby's skin. we'll blame it all on the baby.
ps: tomorrow is the first day of my third trimester as well. wow.
i just returned from walking oliver in the stroller to central market. and he did not fall asleep for even one second. he forced me to open a bag of ABCD crackers pre-purchase. he would become distraught if i did not see the letter on each cracker before eating it. it took me a couple of seconds to figure out this was the source of his troubles. i should've realized quicker considering the number of times he's come pounding his little sneakers into the room while i'm on a conference call to show me a cracker before pounding his little sneakers back out.
on my way back, i was slightly startled when i realized i was crossing the street and headed straight for a little, old lady standing under a small tree and dressed in a short-sleeved, lime sherbet-colored, polyester pantsuit with white blouse. "it's a lovely day to be outside," she said. i assumed she was waiting for a bus to pick her up.
it's a little warm out there. i had to shed the cardigan, which i was hoping would somehow act like a magical cloth to make me look less pregnant. i don't honestly know why i care. but let's face it... i was not wearing a button down shroud of turin. i still looked 10 months pregnant.
sweet jesus. 20 'til 5. how did that happen? i suppose i should make some spaghetti.