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High Tide in Tucson, Barbara Kingsolver

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I will forever be grateful to a coworker for sending me a link to this comic today. They are ALL genius, but I laughed until I got a cramp over this, this, and this.


I dare you to stick your face in there.

Friday, April 1, 2005

Two weeks ago, I could wear all of my size 10 pants, as long as I had an elastic hair band looped through the buttonhole to make the waist more stretchy. One week ago, I could wear all of my size 10 pants, as long as I elongated the hair band by looping only one end over the button.

Ah, the good old days.

Today I'm wearing maternity pants, because even though they are fugly and came from Target, they are massive and stretchy and dammit-to-hell I am EXPLODING out of everything else I own. I wore what used to be a roomy pair of low-rise cropped jeans yesterday, and about halfway through the afternoon I was so incredibly uncomfortable I started wondering what my coworkers would think of me if I ripped off my pants, made a giant skirt out of paper towels, and loudly vowed that as god as my witness, I would never wear denim again.

I tried on three different outfits this morning before flinging myself to the ground and bellowing like a wounded orangutan because NOTHING FIT; my pants were pinching my midsection so tightly that rolls of fat blorped up over the waistline, my button-down shirts rudely gapped open and revealed my Plorty Snee-cup-sized bra, even my previously benign Hanes underwear was busily crawling northbound, heading to choke off my lower intestine.

I blame genetic mutants like Sarah Jessica Parker for making me think pregnancy might result in a mostly unchanged body except for a cute, round belly that you could stretch fashionable sundresses over. Instead, I am rapidly turning into Veruca Salt over here - throw a line of rope over me and drag me through Macy's, goddammit, because there is no cute belly, there is only ZUUL!

Q. Did you really bust out a nerdy Ghostbusters reference in the middle of your little body image freakout session?
A. Shut up. I am fat and hormonal and I WILL EAT YOU.

I'm hoping that things will be a little easier in the coming weeks when there's no mistaking what my bloatage is caused from, as opposed to this in-between, my-god-maybe-you-should-cut-back-on-the-Haagen-Dazs stage. Until then, maybe I can buy two or three fashionable sundresses and tie them around my expanding girth.


I came home from work the other day and flipped on the light in the utility room to find several piles of semi-digested cat food - evidence that a barf session had started in the laundry basket, cascaded down the front of the dryer, and then ended on the floor after several more upheavals. Sighing, I left to get the paper towels, when I glanced in the backyard and saw an excited Dog, brown from head to toe, having apparently spent her day splashing in puddles and coating every hair on her body with mud.

If you see a peabrained Labrador and an urpy housecat show up on eBay, please run up the bidding for me, okay?

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