::sneaks over to make out with Maria::

If this is the way you people talk down individuals bent on death and destruction, I like it.

You make commence with the making out.

Hey wait! I thought I was the Boss of Everything!

Hm. Typing that caused me some stress. I think I'll remember the HAPPY creed: "A stressed worker is an unproductive worker."

t climbs back into hammock

JZ, I give you the secret I'd have killed to've known about when knocked up: baby consignment stores. Seriously--best maternity selection I've ever been able to find. It's also helped my nursing wardrobe.

If this is the way you people talk down individuals bent on death and destruction, I like it.

Me, too.

I'm scheming death and destruction for ... my in-laws. I can't help it. If the old man saves the useless, un-re-closeable bag from one more cereal box, or leaves the already-dribbled-on toilet seat up one more time, or turns up Rush Fucking Limbaugh to decibel levels that could be heard on Mars, I will lose. my. shit.

Don't even get me started on Crazy!BiL. He ... No, I can't even type it out. The kitchen knives are far too close at hand.

The only Target really close to me has exactly four racks of Liz Lange, one of which is bathing suits and one of which is t-shirts on clearance. I do pilfer the remaining two racks whenever I get a chance, but it's slim pickings indeed.

The big evil work deadline that we laid to rest? Has regenerated and is lurching around as a new evil.

That's unpossible, and grossly unfair. It already chewed you up and spit you out once. Stake it! Burn it, bury the ashes and salt the earth!

JZ, one of the stores on College over here on my side of the Bay is supposed to have the mostest bestest bra fitter ever for pregnant women with the big angry bazungas. So sayeth my office mate who had them in double letters that were so large as to be meaningless to flat-chested people like me, but she traded the pregancy bazungas in for nice twin boys, one of whom likes to scream, "LOUD!" as loud as he can. I can ask her the name of her savior, if you like.

I do pilfer the remaining two racks whenever I get a chance, but it's slim pickings indeed.

I wish I had my old stuff to send you. Sara was born in November, so it would have been the right season and everything. But I sent it to a friend in Chicago when she was pregnant, and I told her I didn't need it back.

Amy, I am so sorry. It being family just makes it worse.

They're not *blood* family, though...

::tries to subdue wild-eyed glare. fails::

Oh, AmyLiz. I wish we had the teleporter to get you out of there for a bit. Or to set it on "Mars" and sent your in-laws away.