Last night was my first attempt of my new sleeping position - Side Sleeping. My perfect sleeping position basically involves me with my head on my hands and elbows bent, the pillow just touching my forehead, my body at a nice 45 degree angle with my legs completely outstretched. Please refer to my illustration above. Obviously, the move from stomach sleeper to side sleeper is hard, super hard. I feel as if I have had little to no sleep. I slept with a pillow between my legs, and was so conscious of the position, that if I got out of it, I would wake up. The things I do for this kid. No booze, no stomach sleeping, no oysters, no brie. Seriously, if he or she does not say, "I'm sorry Mummy" upon exit via the birth canal. It's over, off to ebay. Just kidding, maybe. I guess it is not good to sleep on your back or your stomach after 16 weeks, and since today is my first foray into my 5th month of pregnancy, I have begun the impossible. I truly wish I had theme music. Ah well.

I have always been gifted in the rack department. In fact, I always felt the C cup a tad too small, while the D cup a tad too big. And upon getting measured once at Victoria's Secret, I heard the results of 37 C ½. So basically I can go 36C to 38D with nary a problem. Which is actually really surprising considering that fact that I did not "blossom" until the summer between Sophomore and Junior years in high school where I went straight into my mother's B cups. Yep, hand me down bras. In eighth grade when it seemed all the other girls went from t-shirts to training bras during gym class, in an effort to fit in I pleaded with my mother to purchase me a bra, only to hear "What for?" Of course, she was right, but changing in front of all the other bra wearing girls while still wearing a t-shirt was sort of horrible. But 8th grade, 9th grade, 10th grade passed and I was still without rack, without period, without any signs of womanhood. And being a tomboy did not help. But the summer of 89 brought with it about 5 inches in height, boobs, and my period. In fact, I got my period at Salisbury Beach in Massachusetts when there one day with my mom and grandmother. As I exited the bathroom a woman, my grandmother quickly told me that she got her last period at Salisbury Beach - and that I found what she lost. Lucky me. So my boobs continued to grow, leveling out at an ample 37 C ½. Sure, sometimes dresses don't fit quite right, but I learned to love my boobs. Not too big, not too small - exactly goldi-breast right. That was until they delved into Double D pregnancy size. And the good news, they will continue to grow. Maybe it is the coral colored sweater I am wearing, but seriously, it looks like two infant's heads are currently breastfeeding, or should I say toddlers heads, because that is a more appropriate size. I am afraid. I am afraid for my back, my already dented shoulders, my reputation as it is about to venture into pseudo porn star status. But there is nothing I can do, so I shall embrace my breastzillas, and keep midgets safe from the rain.

This Saturday evening I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Radiohead at the Greek Theater in Berkeley - as evidenced in the high quality photo above. Believe me, it is Radiohead. Miracles of all miracles, I was actually able to stay up until 12:30 a.m. Thanks to a nap mid-day and sleeping in until 11:00 on Sunday, and pretty much being tired all day - but all in all worth the sleep deprivation for Black Star was played. The Bends will always be my favorite.

In other news, my pants, they are tight. Not camel toe creating or my god, that woman looks like real life sausage link, but truly uncomfortable. Especially given it is towards the end of working day. I just love going home, undoing my pants and seeing all the lines and wrinkles in my belly created by the tight fabric around my waist. Talk about fun. Today is the day I see a Las Vegas Elvis in my marked flesh. I know it! I think it has come to the point in my pregnancy that I must forgo my pants of the old and make the leap to elastic waistbands and roll panels. In fact, I have to say, the few things I have bought and worn are actually not that bad, in fact, I keep on thinking that all woman might be happier with an elastic waist, especially when PMSed and bloated. So, girls, shop maternity and be happy.

P.S. The battle of my bowels has been won, and I am back on a regular schedule. I thank all of those who made prayers and virgin sacrifices on my behalf.

Hello Bowel Movement, My Old Friend. When Will You Come To Me Again? I have not pooped in almost 65 hours. Correction, I actually did just poop, but I don't think poop resembling hamster waste in size and amount qualifies. Especially after being on the toilet for fifteen minutes willing everything in my body to make it occur, which included breathing steadily with a rocking motion all the while praying to God asking why he has forsaken me. However, I don't think God listens to the pregnant and constipated, so my battle continues. This morning I was reading about my upcoming 15th week of pregnancy, which forewarned of the following: "Let’s talk about constipation. Or not. But it’s a fact of life for many pregnant women." Nothing like being in a state only to have it reinforced by the fine folks at Babyzone. Bitches. In an effort to get things moving on the advice of my mother, I have consumed about 30 sugar free jelly beans which have the warning "consumption my produce stomach discomfort and/or laxative effect." Please pray for me. But please not to God, because obviously he is not of kind ear. Perhaps a pray to Poopzilla, Banshee of the Bum or KakaLaka, Goddess of Going, maybe even a sacrifice. Please people, I need help.

I don't know what to say about this photo, except that man is not riding a big penis with hairy balls that is leaking poop. Rather, it is the mascot of a locally made BBQ that came across the television. On the unintentionally comedy scale, it ranked a high 9.8. In addition to this image, the mascot flew around to various weiner eating barbequers squirting his sauce. So many phallic symbols to endure in 45 seconds. The best part was at the end - it is to be continued! I don't know what this chicken leg riding man has in store for me next, but I do wait with bbq baited breath.

In pregnancy news - well my IQ continues to dip. I used to be quite bright; in fact, some in Boston would venture to say "wicked samhart". But now my once high 170 or so IQ is hovering around mentally challenged with food coming out of mouth when eating. Proof evident being this Sunday evening. At 9:15 p.m. the craving of chocolate chip cookies struck. So I made 3 frozen ones to curb the beast inside, but only eating two saving the other for Monday. After I finished my ice-cold milk and two delicious chocolate chip cookies, I headed to bed. Only to be awoken by John at 2:30 a.m. I gather he went downstairs after waking up in sauna chamber heat, only to find the entire loft smelling of gas. Seems I never turned off the oven, and in fact left the door half open. So it seems now my inner subconscious pregnant being is not the sweet capable mom-to-be, but rather a Jonestown's Massacre Mass Suicidal type.

Ah, exercise. Because of some early issues with my pregnancy, I had to discontinue my exercise routine. Which actually was a pretty good one, I was six weeks into this great running program - 45 minutes, various inclines, speeds and massive sweating. I was getting F-I-T. Until of course my egg made acquaintance with certain squiggly genetic material. My first notions that I could be pregnant actually happened the Saturday my period was due. While running, my boobs hurt something awful. Not the usual I am suffering PMS and look at me, I could be a stand in for Orca. But more like wow, my boobs really feel weird, and I have yet to have my clockwork period, well, better drink at this wedding tonight like it is your last time, because well, it might be. Its funny how the mind works. Anyhoo, 3 days later and one positive EPT pregnancy test, things had changed. And two weeks after that, there was a doctor imposed "no-no" on exercise. So I rested my uterus and avoided the gym for the past two months. Not that this was a great test of will for me, that had me crying to everyone about the lack of gym time, but there are some benefits to exercise usually involving a better disposition and firmer thighs. But on Tuesday, I returned to the casa de sweat and decided that swimming would be the answer for the next couple of months. I have always love swimming, starting at a very young age, having a pool at my house, swimming a lake in Kennebunkport and actually being asked to join my college swim team when I took a gym requirement. However, being 20-year-old girl, the idea of sauntering around in a bathing suit in front of people was akin to walking naked. Not going to happen. But since I am now older and about to rival Devine in waist expansion, I decided that swimming was low impact and agreeable to my pregnant state for the duration. So with a purchase of googles and flip-flops I was set to go, and go I did. Swimming Tuesday was heavenly. I forgot how much I enjoyed it. And yesterday was more of the same, pure love of the swim. Until of course 10:30 at night came and I discovered water deep within my ear that after 60 minutes of trying did not come out. I even check the internet for at home remedies to no avail. Crazed and with the left side of my neck hurting from repeated attempts to remove the water, I finally passed out. At lunch today purchased earplugs and eardrops to dry the ear canal. As you see, due to the Ear Paper Experiment, I am especially susceptible to swimmer's ear. I can even get it from showering, thus my patented Steve Wonder ear block neck sway. And Swimmer's Ear, if you have not had it, is very painful and something to be avoided. So hopefully this all works out and I can continue to swim so that my arms don't look like two logs of uncased sausage in the sleeveless dress I need to buy for my wedding. Light a candle for me. I think a prayer to St. Anthony of the sagging underarm might be in order as well. Thanks.

In other news, this morning I encountered this man. He is what I refer to as a costumer. These are people who although it is not Halloween, dress up in ways that cause the stares of other people. I will never understand these people. Probably because I went to Catholic School for eight years and the only discernable difference between anyone were their shoes. Oh, my eight grade light blue moccasins with the silver beading were awesome. Bringing attention to yourself is the antithesis of my more reserved quiet and watching everything approach to life. But in no particular order this guy had:

1. Bald head.
2. Requisite facial hair. Where in the mantra of man does it say - bald head must be accentuated with the following, goatee, soul patch, moustache, or other carefully designed facial man hair. I get it you can grow hair! But just not on your head.
3. Two tattoos on each arm above the elbow and below the bicep.
4. Short sleeve shirt to show adequately the bicep and tattoos. I don't get tattoos personally, but to each their own. But I will always remember the 80 year old man whose chest I was shaving when I was a nuclear medicine technology intern, who said to me "See these tattoos, I hate them. I got them when I was 17. Never get a tattoo." Also, let me tell you, the skin sags. And it sags a lot.
5. Jeans with metal studded belt.
6. And the piece of resistance - big ass headphones that scream, I just got off my job as a lander of airplanes at SFO.