Preggo my Eggo Update: 28 weeks down, 12 to go.

So it's official: I am now pregnant enough to pee when I sneeze. Que me picking up The Quiet Contemplator on Tuesday night with a wad of McDonald's napkins stuffed in my underwear. Classy. Anyway...

Lately, I have found that pregnancy is a great awkward silence filler. Last week I had to go to a work party for two women that were retiring. Where this would usually be torture for me since it is hard for me to censor my diarrhea of the mouth at work functions, it was actually easy and almost fun. People you would normally have nothing to talk about with now have something to act interested in you about. And, all of a sudden, you are the life of the party. Everyone wants to know how you are feeling, when you are due, what's the baby's sex, do you have a name picked out, will you be taking drugs in the hospital or chanting and squatting over a tub in your living room? Obviously, I hate the handsy bastards that think it is OK to touch my stomach when asking me about the baby, but they are few and far between and can feel the searing burn of my gaze when their hand goes anywhere near my gut.

Overall, I just really like not having to come up with mundane crap to talk with strangers, family and co-workers about. Can I just pretend to be pregnant forever so I never have to deal with actually acting interested in people again? That would rock.

Yes, I am pregnant. Let's talk about that.

On another note:
While explaining to my husband that an awesome reader came to my defense and called another reader "Gwyneth" when she called me a bad mom, the following conversation unfolded:

ADD Daddy: But why would she call her Gwyneth?
Me: Gwyneth, as in Gwyneth Paltow. Moms hate her.
ADD Daddy: Why do mom's hate Gwyneth Paltrow? Is it because she named her kid Apple?
Me: Because she feeds her kids all organic, cooks 8-course dinners every night and is married to the hot dude from Coldplay.
ADD Daddy: Oh. OK.

And scene.

Based on 99.9% of our conversations, I think my husband thinks that I have way too much time on my hands/have some sort of mental disability. In the long run, though, what does that really say about him? He is the one that married me.