File this one under: Grist for the Treadmill.
Are you ready? First let's have an adorable photo of my spawn at the local "Tot Lot" and then we'll get to the big fat drama...
OK, so...the title of this post was honest to Thor my lightening-quick reply this afternoon when an old crone of a woman at Hugo's school looked at my belly, beamed, and said, "OH, are you expecting another?"
After I shot back my response, she said, "But that waistline, I thought..."
I repeated myself word for word saying, "No, I'm not pregnant, I'm just fat."
Undeterred she said, "Oh, I was thinking maybe we were getting another baby from you!"
This came after a morning in which two other teachers said I looked like "a model" and "gorgeous" in my cherry red empire waist number. I puffed myself up and said, "Target!" As in, "I know, I can't help it, I make even the simplest frock, rock!"
Let's recap here.
I'm far from obese. Seriously. I know the exact number at which someone my height becomes technically obese and I'm at least (insert funny absurdly gluttonous six-month scenario here) away from it.
And I'm thinner now than when I conceived the baby you see due north of these words. How many women can say that?
Yes, I'm trying to lose weight for boring healthy reasons and yes it's hard because I am highly confident. So confident, in fact, that someone thinking I was pregnant today didn't make me feel fat. It honestly just made me think that if one has big gazongas, one probably shouldn't wear an empire waist -- ever. Also, I think I should live a little and stop buying couture that cost less than a latte from Starbucks. Lesson learned.
So, where's the video? Ive got lots of new exciting videos. But we are experiencing technical difficulties please stand by.
I promise to blog this weekend and maybe even bring you a slice of the hot Seder action happening from Lawn Giland. The best part will be when my mother is surprised that a toddler has no interest in sitting patiently at a table loaded with fine China while we read about plagues from of a book with no pictures. Wait, did I say no pictures? Lies. There is a 60's woodcut of a shank bone, some slaves and bitter herb. Of course he'll love it.
Here is where I will not complain that without my father (dead, but who we do this Seder for, I think) or this brother (In LA, which is like dead except they sometimes appear at weddings) this Seder thing is a sad sham. Depressing. Oi, and it's my bi-annual reminder that I'm such a bad Jew. But never fear and courage -- to get through it, all we hafta do is eat until we look pregnant.
See how I tied that up? I'm so good.
But seriously, I gotta go. If I'm not well-rested my brisket will suffer. So will my impression of "the child who doesn't even know how to ask a question" -- that one has been slaying them like the angel of death for years.
Loving you Internet.
xoxo,
Susie
