Argh the freaking heat

It's like 300 degrees outside today. I almost died on the way from the Columbus Circle subway stop to Wendy's. That's a distance of like 2 blocks. I stopped for provisions and continued my way to the office (another 7 or 8 blocks) which is usually a frozen mecca. (Think Narnia and the White Witch, who cursed the kingdom with winter for one hundred years. I am the ridiculous looking faun-human-associate.) But not today. It's still freaking hot in here.

I don't know if it is a fat person thing or a pregnant thing, but this fetus-growing experience makes me hot all the time. My feet used to be like little icicles year-round, but no longer. I now grow sweat spots in the places where only fat men grow sweat spots, like the crease between their man-boobs and stomach.

Looking as hot as the Hoff


I can cuddle with the bickster only for short periods of time before we part in mutual disgust at the unholy heat generated between us. Right now I'm hiding behind my desk because I have to hide my fat-man-sweat-spots until they dry. The thought of having to venture outside again to go home makes me want to cry fat sweaty tears.

The White Witch lets us take 2-4 weeks of short term disability before the due date, depending on when the doctor says you can or should no longer work. I used to wonder what about late stage pregnancy would render a woman unable to work, short of an actual medical condition like preeclampsia. Now I know: fat man sweatiness.