I know I said a lot of boring, stupid things, but apparently, they've decided to run the article anyway. (It's gotten bumped several times because, well, it's an article about some dumb girl and her blog. "Filler," as I believe the Actual Media Professionals would call it.)
Accompanying the article will be a full-page color photo. Of me.
THE VERY VERY PREGNANT ME.
The photo shoot was yesterday, which is why I didn't post anything. Because anything I posted would have been stuff like this:
WHAT SHOULD I WEAR, INTERNET? WHAT SHOULD I WEAR?
I HATE MY HAIR. HAAAATE.
I HAVE NO NICE LIPGLOSS. WHY DO I HAVE SUCH CRAPPY LIPGLOSS?
GOD LORD IN HEAVEN, I AM SO HUGE AND NONE OF THE CUTE MATERNITY STUFF FITS YOU WHEN YOU ARE THIS HUGE EXCEPT FOR THINGS THAT SHOW OFF MY ARMS AND I WILL BE DAMNED IF I'M GOING TO SHOW MY PREGNANT ARMS IN THE PAGES OF THE WASHINGTONIAN BECAUSE PEOPLE I HATE ARE GOING TO SEE THIS AND FAT HOT HAM, I NEED TO LOOK FABULOUS.
So I spared you my freak out. You're welcome.
(Poor Miss Zoot, however, may never recover from my badgering her with whether or not I should go buy a new outfit despite 1) the fact that I will only be able to wear it for like, four more weeks, 2) the fact that NOTHING for the third trimester is attractive, no matter how many hundreds of dollars you spend, and 3) the fact that I tend to need to wear something a couple times before I decide if I like it so a photo shoot seems like a bad time to be messing with New Experimental Outfits.)
Anyway, I opted not to buy new clothes, but I did make an emergency trip to Sephora where I equally terrorized and thrilled a smiling young salesgirl with my hysterical tale of I HAVE TO DO MY OWN HAIR AND MAKEUP AND I HATE EVERYTHING PLEASE TAKE THIS BASKET AND FILL IT WITH EXPENSIVE THINGS YOU THINK I NEED.
She obliged and picked out all sorts of new shiny makeup for me and I did very little except nod and hand over my credit card.
Although I was temporarily stunned out of panic mode when she complimented my "beautiful skin tone." Y'all, I have been buying makeup since I was 13 years old, and never in my entire life have I ever been told I have a beautiful skin tone. "Uneven," "blotchy" and "pothole-sized pore-pocked," yes. "Beautiful," hell to the no. Thank you, pregnancy, (she says grudgingly).
So then I went home and tried on every article of clothing I own, including pre-pregnancy clothes that I thought might be low-waisted enough to avoid The Belly, but lo, I could not even get them past my thighs. This was very much JUST WHAT I NEEDED AT THIS MOMENT IN TIME, THIGH FAT ISSUES.
I ended up in jeans and a brown t-shirt. This is a look known as, "I have officially given up."
Then I spent ages on my hair and makeup and lamented not being together enough to get a haircut or a professional blow-out because my god, THE FRIZZ and the BLAHNESS.
Then I walked out to the living room to find Ceiba eating a roach trap.
I'm such a rockstar, y'all. I cannot believe I am not on the cover of Vogue this very minute.
So again, more panic, because SHE ATE A ROACH TRAP.
Is she dying? Foaming at the mouth? Should I feed her Ipecac? Stick my finger down her throat? Should I call the vet? Call the photographer? Or just call Jason and cry and ruin my pretty new eye makeup?
In the end, I just stared really hard at her for awhile and decided that she mostly ate the crunchy plastic shell of the trap and didn't seem to eat that much of the tempting, poisonous mush inside. Or maybe I just chose to believe this because I am a Bad Person who didn't want to cancel her photo shoot.
(What happens when my baby eats a roach trap? WHAT THEN, INTERNET?)
Blah blah photographer showed up, we trekked to a nearby park where I could pose with "attitude," which meant no smiling and lots of head tilts and hands placed defiantly on what used to be my hips.
He thought everything looked cool and awesome. I just begged him to tell me if my hair looked like crap.
Behind the photographer was a road, and of course, on this road, were cars. And every car stopped to stare at us and I could see the windows going down and the car occupants debating whether or not I was Somebody.
I only barely refrained from shouting, "I'm Britney Spears, y'all!" Mostly because that would have broken the spell of my intense attitude.
And then we were done. He gave me a Polaroid he'd snapped to check the lighting, and while I do look very well lit, my hair indeed looks like crap and my expression is kind of "Whaaa?"
I have a creeping feeling that the actual photos are going to be variations on that theme. And damn, I will never make fun of ugly pregnant photos of Britney Spears again, because this rockstar shit is HARD.
(That last sentence is a lie and we all know it.)