29.5 weeks

note the unfortunate and regrettable belly-button ring scar

Is this pregnancy getting boring for you? It's all I seem to really think about in depth these days. Just stop reading the blog, really.

Now I'm going to write about few things I've been meaning to mention but about which I don't seem to be able to muster up a whole blog post:

Goodbye, toes.

I didn't shave my legs for two weeks; I shaved them for the first time today and it was a whole lot harder to do than the last time I attempted it.

I really like non-alcoholic beer, but every time I drink one in public, I get horrible, toxic glares. Sigh.

I suddenly want to bake things...a lot. I've never been a baker. In the past month or so I've made cakes, cookies, biscuits. I was marveling about this to Matt. I thought it was some kind of maternal nesting thing. He pointed out that it's more likely the desire to eat bake things than the actual baking of them. He was so right.

I'm going to talk about breasts now. The sudden and rapid distention and reshaping of my breasts, due to pregnancy, has changed the way I think about breasts. I think what pregnancy has done to my breasts is nothing short of FABULOUS AND REMARKABLE and I am in complete denial that they will eventually deflate and I will mourn them. Tonight, Matt and I drove by a 50-something woman on rollerblades with enormous fake breasts popping out of her bikini top like big googly eyes. This particular style of fake boobs does not look like boobs to me. (If you have fake breasts - I'm sorry. I don't mean to insult. But this is my blog. Your boobs, my blog.) I'm sure some people have fake boobs that actually look natural - and those are the ones I don't notice. It's just that when I see some that are so obviously fake, they don't even look like boobs. They look like some kind of weird inflatable shirt. But hey...if the rollerblading lady is happy, that's all that matters. Except that I will blog about your weird shirt. I'm sorry, everyone. Is this mean? I don't like sounding mean.

I will leave you with this: Thirty years and some months ago, I was born at Hennepin County Medical Center in Minneapolis. The locals call it HCMC. In April, I discovered I was pregnant in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. The guidebooks and some locals refer to it as: oh yes! HCMC.

IT MEANS SOMETHING