Tatas!
Some women are blessed with these wonderous gifts, some are not. I’m of the latter, and I didn’t even have anything that resembled breasts until I was at least 18 because I was such a late bloomer. When you get knocked up, bosoms go awry, get fantasticly painful, and fantasticly big. So for the ladies that already have gynormous bozongos lovingly tapering down from your chest, you have my sympathies. But girls like me are thanking the melon gods for bestowing their luscious round grapefruits of glory upon me. Sure they hurt, but damn, they look good! Since I’ve gotten pregnant, I’ve worn more low cut shirts than I ever, and not surprising, Mr. Blogarella has had to fight for survival from any possible booby induced suffocation. (more below the pic)
Now onto the not-so-fun aspect, people asking you “are you going to breast feed?” Apparently if you don’t breast feed, you will resurrect Satan into an earthly being and eternal hellfire will be christend upon you. That, and you will go bankrupt from buying formula and your child will be forced to wear tattered rags until its old enough to manage a fast food restaurant, because they will be so stupid from not being breast fed, that this will logically be the only place they can be employed. Let me make this clear ladies: THIS IS YOUR BODY! A lot of people will do a great job of telling YOU what to do, but in the end, you need to make your own choices. Don’t let anybody guilt you into making a choice like this. If you want to breast feed, great, if you don’t want to breast feed, great. If anybody gives you any crap, let them know that its none of their damn business anyway! 
Esculent I – Easiest Chicken Pot Pie Ever
OK, I’m lying. The easiest chicken pot pie ever is the one you remove from your freezer and fling on the counter with a resounding thud. Its one of those food items that are often a last resort and often require contempation between that and the other frozen thing in your freezer that you cannot identify clearly through the blanket of ice that has formed around it. I promise this is easy, and yes, some assembly is required, but its still faster than coloring your own hair, and it smells a lot better.
A Blogarella original:
Chicken Pot Pie
1 Can of Cambell’s Healthy Request Cream of Chicken Soup
1 Cup of diced chicken or turkey
1 cannister of Pillsbury Reduced Fat Crescent Rolls, unrolled and flat
1 cup of frozen veggies(this is just an estimate since I didn’t put them directly in the recipe)
In a pie plate combine the soup and the vegetables and mix together. Top with flat crescent roll dough. Bake in the oven at 400 degrees until golden brown (up to 30 mins). Slice and serve hot.
Losing my Blog-ginity
And I feel just a little bit dirty!
I’m going to be a mom, and I’m the last person anybody would trust with a delicate object, this is not a joke! When my cousin was getting married in a tent, I received a special phonecall asking me to please not dance on the tent poles, and I’m so inept that I once managed to make a Pampered Chef pizza stone explode into several tiny pieces.
Despite my flaws I fell madly in love, took my lover’s hand, and ran off into the sunset…then I woke up….pregnant! I’ll never forget the first indication, which came in the form of severe nausea. Looking at my love, I whispered “you knocked me up” which he didn’t believe. 3 positive pregnancy tests later, he still didn’t believe it. A doctor’s visit confirmed my psychosis diagnosis.
So now was the time to celebrate, right? Heck no! There was sick to be had, and lots of it! All sorts of crazy things that nobody tells you about, and uncontrollable emotions that make you want to drop your beloved off at his mother’s house to live for the duration of your pregnancy. She insists that he’s my problem now, but I’m wondering if a bag of money would change her mind?
Now I’m farther along, I’m slightly calmer, but my bump looks more like that of somebody who spent a weekend binging at a kegger. I’m far from home, I want my mommy, and I find other pregnant women to be a lot more chipper than myself. When I’m asked how many weeks I am, I get out my fingers and start counting “one month is 4 weeks…” I’d rather not be basting my stomach with special oils like I’m some sort of Thanksgiving turkey, and I’ve yet to be hit with the inclincation to go baby shopping. I haven’t even purchased maternity clothes. I’m having way more fun trying to keep people guessing, and have considered pulling a Jennifer Lopez and not admitting that I’m pregnant until I can no longer see my feet.
Now I just need to figure out how to feel sexy when you feel like you just swallowed the world globe from your junior high history class. And how to stay sexy when you are a crazed sleep deprived woman that will threaten to slice her beloved if he doesn’t bring her Cafe du Monde!!!!!
