Setting Records

If being pregnant is cool, consider me Miles Davis. Never mind the fact that my electric toothbrush makes me gag and I actually had a whole ten minutes of sleep between trips to the bathroom to pee last night. My nipples feel like chewed-up bubble gum and all of my bras give me what my friends and I are referring to as "quad-boob". (That's extra boob popping out of the bra that holds the normal boob.)

I did set a record last night at work for most-food-eaten-during-one-shift. Adam marveled at my two pound Pita Pit delight.
Adam: Did you tell them you were pregnant or something?
Me: No, now give me some elbow room this isn't gonna be pretty.

Pita was at 8. Sabrett's Sausage with extra mustard was at ten. Adam was nice enough to go to the corner and get it for me so I didn't look like a porker to all three of the people sitting at the bar. Pretty girls don't eat sausages AND pitas.

I felt full. Satisfied, more like it. What the hell, I felt good. Especially after unsnapping my jeans. So why did I agree to a slice of cheese pizza at one a.m? Because I'm pregnant! And food is delicious. And I can eat pizza, pita, AND sausages if I want to!

Don't judge me lest ye be judged. And so on.

peace and sausage grease,
Mrs. G

Don't Judge Me or My Condiments

I only eat chicken nuggets because it's faux-pas to eat ranch dressing with a spoon. This fact applies to most things I dip. French fries and onion rings are mere vessels for the ketchup/hot sauce/honey mustard. I can't lie. Even crackers and chips would be horrified to know their only purpose is to get hummus and onion dip into my face.

I am not proud of myself. Not at all.