And also, one last note about maternity clothes...
All the pregnancy books suggest "wear[ing] your husband's clothes! Pair a men's dress shirt with some kicky stirrup leggings! His jeans won't look ridiculous on you at all! And if you're single, gay or just plain fatter than your husband, well, fuck you! Ha!"
I have actually taken this Very Stupid Advice from time to time and borrowed Jason's t-shirts. I like to choose ones that are particularly tasteful and appropriate.
This one announces to the world that yes, I am indeed carrying the Skeletor Demonspawn of Hell, so hand over the pudding.
Earlier this week, I received a particularly amusing comment from some (fat, lonely, unloved) troll who informed me that I am odd-looking, have feet like Fred Flintstone's and anyone who comes to me for hair and make-up advice should be really be referred to an opthalmologist.
She signed it with the classic hate-mail closing, "Just a thought." Like, sure, you're just offering some impromptu friendly advice here, and totally did not just spend over 20 minutes composing what you imagine to be a brilliant, deadly blow to my ego, and also, you totally did not have to Google the correct spelling of "opthalmologist." (edited to add: Okay! It's ophthalmologist! Google let both me and our trollish friend down. Sheesh.)
I imagine the Fred Flintstone bit is a reference to the ugly-yet-comfy-as-a-fluffy-cloud Born sandals I am wearing in this photo, for which I make NO APOLOGIES, and will instead smile with karmic delight at what this troll's feet will look like during pregnancy, when they will probably swell to Sideshow-Bob-like proportions. Yabba-dabba-do, bitch.
However, she makes a valid point about the hair and make-up advice thing. I really don't know how all that started or why people suddenly started asking me about lipglosses and hair products or why this post continues to get a zillion hits a day.
So, as penance for my audacity to give beauty tips while not being myself an actual supermodel or something, I'm presenting a list of Secret Beauty Confessions, or The Things I Do That I Know I Shouldn't.
1. I wear my hair in a ponytail to bed.
2. My hair looks best when blow-dryed layer by layer, using professional duckbill clips and a round brush. I tell my hairdresser that I do this every day. This is a big fucking lie.
3. I bite my nails. (Pregnancy has made them oddly indestructible, but at any other point in my life, my nails have been nothing but 10 brittle, gnawed-down stubs.)
4. I never get pedicures.
5. The last time I painted my toenails was in March. (To be fair, I can't see my toes anymore, much less comfortably reach them unless I do some complicated gymnastics on my stairs, and really, who cares?)
6. I still use Q-Tips to clean my ears, eardrums and brain damage BE DAMNED.
7. If I'm in a hurry, I'll shave my legs with a wet razor and nothing else.
8. I always forget to tweeze my eyebrows.
9. I use Pantene hairspray.
10. I still wear a pair of cheap, square-toed pumps from Nine West to work occasionally because they're really, really comfortable.
11. I can't properly contour blush to save my life.
12. I own eye-makeup remover, but I hardly ever use it.
13. I still love those slightly-masochistic blackhead-strips from Bioré that don't really do a damn thing except give you a cheap giddy thrill at the sight of the crud you just ripped from your pores.
14. My husband is the only one who remembers to put out a fresh washcloth, ever, as I'll keep using the same one until it's literally BLACK with eye makeup and dirt.
15. I am Very Bad About Flossing.
Man, that was liberating. And now I will post photos of the nasty, unflossedness that is Me At 23 Weeks Pregnant. Please also note that today was not a day for the Proper Blow-Drying Technique.
From the front: I don't look pregnant at all. Just a little thick, like after eating a lot of hot dogs.
From the side: poochie!
(By the way, it's really, really hard to take a belly photo by yourself.)
(Also by the way, the top is from Old Navy, the hand-me-down capris are from Motherhood. This entire outfit cost me $12.99! Whoo!)
Believe it or not, there really is a baby in there, and that baby is currently 11 inches long. That's this big:
He kicks me very, very hard. He must have inherited my Fred Flintstone feet.