Keep Your Yoga Pants On.

It's sort of alarming, the number of borderline immodestly dressed smug pregnant women parading around my neighborhood. I feel like I'm seeing more and more pregnant women all over the city with their naked stomachs protruding from beneath their expensive James Perse t-shirts and their Baby Phat velour hoodies. More than, say, in 2005, and that was bad enough. The daffodils are out, so are lady stomachs. Good Lord! It makes my own stomach hurt just thinking about their skin straining over the life-to-be in there. Mmmphr. I know I sound like Dave Barry, but it has been making me see white. As in inducing not a red, but an absence-of-all-colors sort of rage.

On the topic: was talking to a good friend of mine about this woman, Stephanie Klein, who apparently wrote a blog about her husband leaving her while pregnant. And...what do you know, she got a book deal because of it! Regan Books, bien sur. It's called Straight Up and Dirty? Or something that unsubtle. I guess I should Google this before I write about it. Anyway, my friend, while discussing it, said, regarding the proliferation of this sort of thing, "Sometimes I forget there's a whole other level of discourse."

I thought that was perfect, so I will share it with all of you. All two of you.

Sometimes I hate my own sex. Wait--I often hate my own sex. And I'll just leave that there and move quietly on.