Makin' Whoopie

I have officially had my first pregnancy craving/obsession.

Apparently, its impossible to get a decent Whoopie Pie in the city of Los Angeles, where I am currently in custody. For days, I paced around, not knowing what to do. Finally, some pregancy hormones kicked in and I realized that I could make them from scratch. I know. Crazy. Its definitely the hormones.

To prove that I made them, I took a picture. I shot it before assembly, so you would know that I didn't buy them at a bakery. There are even some official crumbs on the cookie sheet.

I ate one. It tasted almost like food.

I may have to wait until my second trimester when the mommy hormones really kick in before I try this baking thing again. Until then, or such a time when some authentic Whoopie Pies are flown my way, I will have to eat cake.

Two (2)

My days of looking good are numbered. Though inside I already feel baby-full, outside, the fact is that I still pass as a little heavy on the whoopie pie side but, otherwise, still pretty hot. So - last ditch attempt for attention – tonight I went out.

I went out… and I had two glasses of wine. That’s right ladies, call the pregnancy police: I had two (2) glasses of wine. Spaced out by two (2) hours. And I ate two (2) meals so that the alcohol would never make it out of my stomach (as may not the pizza and the burger, which are definitely still there).

When you go out on the town, you always run the risk of running into your ex. The advantage of this is that you know they aren’t at home making house with someone else.

The disadvantage is that usually after you break up with someone, you don’t want to see them – at least not until you have gone to the gym obsessively for two (2) months, waxed, dyed, plucked and generally had the opportunity to demonstrate what a glorious mistake they made. Me, I don’t have that luxury. If I don’t run into my ex RIGHT NOW, I will be fat, acned, and hunchbacked.

(un)Fair Trade

In case anyone missed it in my earlier posting, let me be clear: all those ladies who tell you that pregnancy is a glorious 9 months, including but not limited to the fact that you don’t get your period, have lied to you.

Right about now, some of you biology majors are probably thinking to yourself, “Hmm, Gia, if you’re still getting your period I think there’s a good chance you might not be pregnant.”

Multiple Choice:

How do you know you are about to get your period?
A. Cramps
B. Big and bloated
C. Cranky mother fucker
D. Horny
E. Crave Hot Fudge Sundaes, Oreos, Ding Dongs, Whoopie Pies.

I’m here to tell you: pregnancy no glowy ball of joy. It is none other than “F. All of the Above.”

That means for 9 months you are a big fat bloated crampy Ding Dong eating cranky horny mother fucker.

So, in summary, ladies, listen to the Minister of Truth: you will save $45 in tampons, but you will put 45 lbs of Ding Dong on your arse.