I love you, Mommie dearest.

Wishing all trashy mamas no wire hangers today. Here's to all the bloody steak, shoulder pads, axes, Bon Ami cleanser, and all the ankle-strapped fuck-me pumps you desire.

Slacking

I am so slacking on my vow to blog more. Between being knocked up, watching The Voice, and keeping us in corn dogs, I am just plumb tuckered out. Plus I suspect I just don't have much funny to report, other than my left cankle, which is a thing of beauty and a joy forever, and my rapidly expanding middle, which is going to rival the last time and is already showing signs of having its own atmosphere and tides. Also, trying to shave my legs while pregnant is high comedy, but if you saw it you'd probably go blind. Also, I hope maraschino cherries are not bad for me because I am heavy into Shirley Temples right now. My friends and I are all nostalgic about dinners out as kids where we got our own "cocktail". I am sure that today if I ordered my kid a Shirley I'd get a lecture about how inappropriate it is to order a training cocktail for a kid. WhatEVS.

Best part of being pregnant? I am not fat right now. I'M PREGNIT, Y'ALL. Pass the Doritos.

Have you ever noticed that you never see regular sized people in trailer parks? They are either too skinny-denim-tank-tattooed, like all the women who look like Patti Smith is their personal style icon even though if you asked them who Patti Smith is they'd be all like "Who? She on Nascar or what?", or fat and dirty-totally-gave-up-don't-wash-their-hair-unless-it's-parole-officer-day. I am clearly not destined to be a Patti Smith. Plus, I fear needles. I fall firmly into Camp #2.

Better go wash my hair. Right now.