Preggo my Eggo Update: 27 weeks down, 13 to go. (Mickey Rourke, stay away from my vagina.)

I made it! I finally hit the third trimester. Yay!

I went to the liquor aisle of my grocery store looking for a good bottle of wine for my hubby's birthday this week. That was stupid. It was like giving me a delicious piece of chocolate cake that punches me in the face every time I touch it with a fork*. Needless to say, ADD Daddy didn't get any wine and I left the store feeling like a junior high kid after a night of dry humping: keyed up and unfulfilled.

The other night I said to my husband, "We have a problem. I think my "area" is starting to look like Mickey Rourke." He replied, "Um...OK. That's not good." Exactly. So, due to increased blood flow and the pressure of My Sponsor using it as a hammock, my stuff is starting to resemble a resurging actor from the '80s that didn't know when to say when with the plastic surgery. Ew. I know.

At least better than Mickey.

*I miss you, Bob Rybarczyk. Suburban Fringe was awesomeness.