"The trouble with armadillo races..."

...my Dad began, last night at Sunday dinner. We all started laughing, and so he asked, What? You've never been to an armadillo race? How old are you? 

Anyhow,  he continued, the trouble with armadillo races is that sure, somebody wins, and somebody loses, but EVERYBODY ends up with stinky hands.

(Apparently armadillos are very smelly, and even strong soap won't take off the stink. Also, I looked it up, and in Texas, you can hire armadillo racers to come to your party, like a clown or a magician!)

I've often thought that I should tell you about my sister's extensive and phenomenal collection of hair accessories...

But I didn't. I never did.

And then, Christina totally beat me to it. 

Warning: what you are about to see is REAL. And graphic. And, you might accidentally break the tenth commandment* a little bit.

And then, you'll be the only one on her way to Hell, cause Jen totally shares her hair bows with everybody, and has thus far been miraculously spared from scourge of lice in a miraculous, saint-style manner.

Except, not everybody** can really pull off some of these dazzlers like she can. For instance, I learned the hard way that they don't look super marvy with yoga pants*** . But she's got a copper metallic number that wouldn't look shabby next to some of Austria's crown jewels (I've been watching a lot of Rick Steves when I'm not busy puking), that I wore to a Broadway show (last year, when I was still medium-foxy, and not brought low and nigh unto death by this bun in my proverbial oven) with my Nanette Lepore flapper dress. I was smokin' hot****, but my neck was sore from holding that thing up all night!

Okay, ready? Buckle up, then click here!

* Thou shalt not covet

** i.e. me

**btw, even my yoga pants are too tight, and the Zofran quit helping at all. So I am feeling very sad and am thinking that I need to go to Wal-Mart and buy me some scrubs. They seem very loose and non-spandexy. But I don't want to puke in the aisle at Wal-Mart, for obvious reasons, plus my sister was horrified when I told her my plan, because she is more fashionable than anyone I know, and considered it a cry for help, and I think she might have called the mean people at What Not to Wear to schedule me some sort of intervention. Which I totally don't need this week. At least I know they can't have much footage of me looking like a bag lady in the grocery store, cause I don't ever leave my house. 

Feel the mode, Stacey and Clinton! (And Jen).

****I'm a six in New York, but a seven here in Scranton (er, Mesa)

Oh yeah. Come back and tell me which is your favorite!

Your blog makes me barf

I know. You clicked on the title because you think that here in the post body, I will take it all back. That I'll tell you, no way, I'm totally kidding! Your blog doesn't make me barf.

But the sad truth is, it does. When I read your blog, I want to vomit.

If it makes you feel any better, my blog makes me barf, too.

So does checking my email.

And reading. (Like computers,  all the words make me feel seasick.)

And smelling any sort of Asian food, sitting up, drinking water, watching Rick Steves eat pickled herring in Belgium, brushing my hair, or taking a nap. 

To be fair, I should also list things that do not (usually) make me chuck: lying in my bed without moving anything but my eyeballs and the index finger that changes channels on the TV remote, lemon sorbet, and vanilla mint chapstick.

In other news, thanks to our friends at Dr. Beck's office, who prescribed the zofran, I only fantasize about going into a Michael Jackson style induced coma like twice a day. And I almost never wish I were temporarily dead. Anymore.

And finally, remember when my pants fell off in Albertson's? And I pretended to be horrified by it? And then I went and got pants 4 sizes smaller? 

Let's just say that if I decided to go to Albertson's today and purchase raw chicken (seems super-duper unlikely, since I am dry heaving a bit, just thinking about it), that those pants aren't going anywhere. They are uncomfortably snug. (And I'm talking about the big pants. Those little ones only fit for like two weeks).

At least there's that. (We won't talk about how I can be simultaneously barfing and gaining weight. I'm sure there is some kind of scientific explanation that won't make me feel any better.)

Happy 8.5 weeks to me.

If you ask me in October, I will tell you I am super excited, and that it was all worth it.

I do love me some babies. 

Do you get sick? How sick? Please tell me about it. Cause it might be very wrong of me, but one thing that makes me feel better is hearing about other people who feel worse. But please don't tell me stuff like: Oh sure, once I was like, 6 months along, and I drove past this swamp that smelled like decomposing bodies, and it was totally touch and go there for like 30 seconds, but I ate some saltines, and I held it together! 

Which reminds me: no one is allowed to say anything about eating saltines. It will make me very angry.