Every two weeks J.Crew sends a new catalog to torture me with lovely little sweaters, cute pleated tweed skirts, and yummy corduroy pants. I don't even open them anymore.
I live in a land of tent-shaped shirts and elastic-waistband pants. I've not even dared venture down the dreaded "tummy panel" path and hope I won't have to any time during this nine month period.
J.Crew hates me. In fact so does Anthropologie and Title Nine. I just want to cry. Instead, I hit Zappos and buy new shoes. It's the last stylish vestige of a pregnant woman.
I've stumbled across two interesting 'net articles recently:
Looks like more of those reports of NOLA turning into the Ninth Level of Hell during the Katrina aftermath are turning out to be total bullshit. What disturbs me most about the article is the fact that both the Asshat Mayor and Chief of Police in NOLA went on Oprah and propagated these lies.
My ass will pick up and move if this ever comes to pass in the Old Dominion. I'd like to think that Virginians have a little more sense than to ever vote this Choad into office. He hasn't even had a decent movie in like five years. I will relocate to New Zealand with Lumpy if I have to even read the words "Senator Affleck" in the news. There are no snakes in Middle Earth, you know.
Oh and today this very pregnant woman who works on the other aisle across from me is here coughing up a lung. Bitch better not get me sick.