11.08.07 :: 8:46 am

bizarre dream this morning in which the VP of Bigwig's was making fun of my reproductive problems.
She was chastising me for printing out fertility charts on company time (which I have never, ever done - oh my god how MORTIFYING) and then pointing to her belly and saying "Oooh, little follicle here and here and here" in a totally condescending, playground bully kind of tone.

And then I looked at her and said, "I have cancer."

I woke up to the dog's face right up in mine, sharing my pillow.
Good morning.

I've decided, in the absence of any real walking activity, to nix the elevator in our apartment building altogether and walk up and down the 5 flights. It's the only way to keep my ass in a size 29 if I'm not knocked up.

Speaking of which, I'm completely freaked out to pee on the stick.
I kinda know I'm not pregnant, but I don't want to confront the possibility of having to delve further into the scary "reproductive assistance" arena.

Maybe it's a sign that we shouldn't conceive here and wait until we're settled back in Brooklyn. Which is ten months away, but it would make life easier.

I've always wanted to deck out my infant in a "Made in Brooklyn" onesie.

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