So last night we went out to dinner at the fondue restaurant at the top of Keystone. You take two gondolas to get to the restaurant. We had an amazing dinner with turtle fondue at the end, which I ordered a spoon in order to finish. Yes, I shamelessly spooned the chocolate straight from the pot into my mouth. (I managed to keep it off my forehead this time too.) As we waddled out toward the gondola to go home, there were a few women arriving. They were overly done up and one of them was wearing a fur coat. Her own hair had gotten caught in her fur coat, and all I could think is, "ha ha fancy pants, that's karma!" Then I had a funny picture of a barely visible spirit lingering over her shoulder laughing with Dave Chappelle's voice saying, "Bitch, I'll let go of your hair when you let go of mine!"
So the end of pregnancy is for the fuckin birds. I'm sure plenty of you out there know this. There's nothing to say but that you're sick of being pregnant. You're a little sick of the sweet smiles and knowing looks from strangers. You're just all over sick of it. You're spectacularly sick of the: when's your due date how far are you are you having a boy or a girl I bet you're sick of this what hospital are you going to, conversations. You miss when people used to ask about the soccer game you played or the book you're reading. You're sick of swollen handsfeetfaceneckanklesEVERYTHING. Oh and from the beginning of pregnancy until FRIDAY, I had NO stretch marks. Friday my entire lower abdomen erupted into one. giant. stretch mark. So all weekend, I thought, please let this be over soon. Every cramp I felt I welcomed and thought, "whatever work my body does now, it doesn't have to do during labor." Little did I know how much
They make their hair extra poofy to match their coat. I think animals take pity on us for our HUGE bald spots, but prolly not if we wear hides.
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