September 8, 2009
I have exactly one month to go until my due date and let me tell you, all bets are off. I'm pissy, I'm cranky, and I'm wearing sweatpants to the office for the rest of this pregnancy. If anyone has anything to say about that, I'll cry and cry and wipe my nose all over their shoulder--all the better if it happens to be on something that's dryclean only.
If I had to wager a guess, there's almost nothing as awkward as a gigantic, hormal officemate asking you to rub her hair and tell her she looks pretty while her face is coated in nice, warm snot--so let's just hope it doesn't come to that.
I swear to the high heavens, unless I'm hearing words like, "Here's a chocolate pudding cup," or "Here's an unmarked bag of money," or "I stuffed your husband in the trunk of your car for you at no charge," I want absolutely no part of it.
I asked Jared to move out this past weekend.--just to his mother's house, and just for thirty-or-so days. And do you know what? That heartless fool had the nerve to say no. Right to my bloated face.
Not smart, honey. At this point, you've gotta give the big girl everything she asks for--and then back away slowly.