I guess that's why they call it labor.

A dear friend is 9 months pregnant and then some. Said friend was due yesterday, but her body has been ready to evict her little girlie out since at least last week. Her labor started last night but then... just seemed to pause for the cause. Now for the last 24 hours, the whole process has just sort of been on hold. Either she goes into full and active labor tomorrow or they break her water, but either way little Olivia will make her way into the world on 3/30/07.

But sheesh. That seems like a lot of work.

I've decided I'm going to opt out of that whole thing. Not c-section opt out. Just, I'd rather not do the whole delivery thing. Pregnancy hasn't been too bad. I think we'll just do this for... ever. OK great! Have a good weekend!

Ten reasons I like Wade.

1. Pregnant or not, I could wake him up in the middle of the night and ask him to go get me water and he would.


2. He thinks my family is great (and they think he’s great; it’s a little sick).


3. He has great taste in music but doesn't mind when I make him listen to Kelly Clarkson.


4. After nearly 13 years, we still make each other laugh (even more so now because do you know how many inside jokes you gather after 13 years together?).


5. I find him to be quite hot. Seriously, one time he walked into a store where I was working, and I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye and thought "Damn, who's that hottie?" Can I even explain what a nice feeling it was to realize that it was my own husband?


6. He’s my biggest fan. He thinks I am hilarious and that I will someday be a best-selling children’s author, popular sandwich chef, master dog trainer, and professional donut taster.


7. He’s an excellent listener. After 13 years of training. Most of the time.


8. He hasn’t killed Kermit yet.


9. 9a: No matter what obscure pop culture reference I make, he’ll get it and one up me. 9b: He is an unabashed fan of MTV's "The Hills" and will gladly and openly discuss what a douche Brody is to anyone who'll listen. (Though he inexplicably--and disturbingly--thinks Spencer is cool.)


10. He respects my snarkiness. I think he'd be sad if I was a 100% nice person.

All that to say, happy birthday, Nerdle.

For your Monday morning viewing pleasure.

This was the cause of much muffled laughter from my cube this morning.

Michie in Wonderland.

When Wade and I registered for our wedding, it wasn't pretty. In the middle of the duvet cover section of Macy's Home Store I had a full on breakdown--crying, yelling, the whole nine. I was racked with guilt over asking for so much (we were gluttons), being in a position to ask for so much (so many only wanted a roof over their heads for the night), asking for so much new stuff (all we were doing was contributing to the over-production and over-consumption of new materials instead of recycling and reusing perfectly good, non-new stuff). Wade, my mom, my sister, my mother-in-law, and most of all the Macy's employees thought I had lost my mind. It was so not pretty.

(BTW, eventually I reconciled that we didn't own anything yet so it was OK to ask for some stuff for our house, and we compromised by registering in moderation.)

Registering for baby stuff has been only slightly less traumatic.

I did not collapse in tears at our first foray into the world of baby stuff registration at Wonderland Children's Store today (which we chose because it's a locally owned, independent store--and those independent local store owners are my second cousins), but there were a few tears before and after. Frankly, the CRAP that a baby seems to require--even at the bare minimum--is ridiculous. And that crap comes in 100 different varieties. And each variety of crap has 10 brands that want to sell it to you.

Am I stressed about asking for too much and contributing to over-production? Shoot, I wish. I'm not even there yet. First, there's this whole other, primary level of stress that I have get past that involves much research and figuring out what the hell this baby needs. Then, I'll deal with the stress of feeling like a baby-goods glutton and not freecycling used stuff.

Take, for example, car seats. There are car seats just for infants (0-20 pounds), convertible car seats (0-40 pounds), regular toddler car seats (20-40 pounds), and booster seats (40+ pounds). Some experts recommend getting an infant car seat first, then switching to a toddler car seat; others say it doesn't matter and a convertible one is OK. Fine, great. Thanks for the help. Either way, you still need the booster seat when they top 40 pounds.

Then, once you decide on the car seat, you have to decide on the stroller. Do you want one that is compatible with the car seat (meaning it can just snap right in)? A whole "travel system"? If you don't get one that's compatible with the car seat, are you really OK with taking the baby out of the car seat--potentially waking it up and dealing with all that entails--and moving it to the stroller? And isn't this insane that you have to decide how annoyed you'll be with a crying baby several months ahead of time?

And then in the middle of worrying about all of this you remember that a generation ago they had a fraction of these choices and we all turned out just fine and should I even really be spending all this time worrying and aren't I just being suckered in by the baby product industry's whole "you need this stuff and aren't a good parent if you don't have it" head trip? Bastards.

So yes. A few frustrated tears fell during the research process.

By the time we actually finished the registration process, the poor second cousin at Wonderland--who was super nice and helpful--was probably ready to kill me.

"So do you think you'll be using a breast pump?"

"Definitely."

"This one is great. It has this and this and this and that..."

"Um, wow. Yeah, that does sound great. Let's wait on it."

"OK, how about receiving blankets?"

"Oh yes, I think we'll definitely need some of those."

"How many would you like to register for?"

"Huh. Yeah. Let's wait on those too."

Poor gal. We probably walked out of there with all of 10 items on our registry. IT WAS JUST TOO MUCH PRESSURE! In self-preservation, I had to limit my time there.

So I don't really have a point to all this. Just that I hated it. This isn't shopping. This is a tortuous school project that I am going to procrastinate on and copy the answers from other people and probably finish late. Because that's just the kind of person I am.

Oh dear lord.

I've been mentally preparing myself for all kinds of people to pop out of my ladyparts in June: a whiny girl, a sweet girl, a prissy girl, a cute girl, an ugly girl, a lesbian girl, a Republican girl, a girl who doesn't like animals, a girl who thinks K-Fed is cute, a dumb girl, a girl smarter than me, a girl who likes her dad better... I'm getting geared up to meet whomever comes out of there.

I am not, however, prepared to deal with this.

Seriously? How do you deal with "She really gets into it, and can go for long periods—half an hour, 45 minutes. She becomes very intent and flushed, and often gets upset when we try to stop her (probably because it feels good—duh!)"?

26 week round-up.

As of Tuesday, I am 26 weeks pregnant (!) and in the last week of my second trimester. Here's where we're at body- and bean-wise.

The following are courtesy of ivillage:

Your baby may be very active between weeks 24 to 28, when small size and ample amniotic fluid allow for freedom of movement. You may feel your baby jump in response to loud sounds or "settle" at the sound of your voice. I can’t tell if she’s reacting to my voice or not, but she’s totally active. As far as what body parts are hitting me where, who knows, but she is is like a dance major in there. Recently, she's working kind of a disco beat, like she put on the “Saturday Night Fever” Soundtrack or something. “More than a woman, more than a woman to meeeeee…”

Your baby is around 14 inches from head to toe, and weighs 1 pound, 12 ounces to 2 pounds 3 ounces. She must be on the high end of that because I feel BIG, yo.

The following are courtesy of emedtv.com:

At this point, it would be a good idea to make sure to get plenty of rest. Your baby is counting on you to stay strong and healthy and to act as a personal incubator until he or she is born. What’s that you say? More rest? Uh huh, yeah, I think I can work with you on that one.

Although your baby's eyes have been sealed shut for the last few months to allow the retinas to develop, they are likely opening and beginning to blink during week 26 of pregnancy. Very cute. Hi McBlinkersons. But then check this out…

Something Fun to Try at 26 Weeks Pregnant: Since your baby can now see, try putting a flashlight up to your abdomen and turning it on. This may get your baby to jump or move. So we all agree that this is just mean, right? This is what they tell you to do with sea monkeys. The bean is not a sea monkey. If someone shined a spotlight in my window I’m sure I’d be startled too. This website (emedtv.com? who are you?) is suggesting that I base one of my first interactions with my child on fear and lies.

After week 26 of pregnancy, you will begin to put on weight at a rate of about 1 pound per week. You may also experience rib pain, which may cause indigestion and heartburn, or stitch-like pains down the sides of your abdomen as your uterine muscle stretches. Sweet. FOURTEEN MORE POUNDS. Plus rib pain and side-stiches? Third trimester is gonna rock.

The following are courtesy of about.com:

Finding a comfortable position for sleeping is a new task! Between night time wakings to go to the bathroom, to get water or snacks, you need all the sleep you can get. Sigh. Isn’t this the truth? She seems to do bouncing headstands on my bladder between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m., which means peepees for mommy 2-3 times a night.

I highly recommend a body pillow. This will enable you to support your legs and your growing belly! If you don't have a body pillow, try making use of several regular pillows. The main problem with pillows is that soon there isn't much room for more than one person in bed, except the pregnant mom. So I’d heard this suggestion about a body pillow and a few months ago made W go out and get one. …AAAAND I’ve used it a grand total of three times. Here’s the thing with these: when you’re pregnant, you need to flip over frequently in the evening (as you only get two sleeping positions—left side and right side--and both get old after an hour or two). And with the body pillow (a solid five feet of fluff), every time you flip, you have to lug this person-sized thing with you. More of a pain than it’s worth. Clearly it is the nefarious body pillow industry that is perpetuating these “recommendations.”

Your baby can hear you and those around you. Although we assume that the uterus is a quiet place, the baby has been surrounded by noise for a long time. Things like your heartbeat, digestion, and other body functions are heard by the baby as well as external noises. We talk to beanie all the time, which is cute and fun, but I do feel kind of bad about her having to hear my inside gurgles. I mean, if I eat a donut, that's one thing, but what about--god forbid--a burrito?

And a last tasty smidge from the other side of next week--the third trimester:

In the beginning of pregnancy you may have noticed that your breasts got larger. The average breast before pregnancy weighs about 7 ounces and during pregnancy each breast can weigh up to an average of 28 ounces! YEEEAH. I'm on my third set of bras in six months. I’ve gone up two cup sizes and one ribcage size (did my lungs get fat?), and I’m PRAYING that these are as big as they’re going to get. Much larger, and I might just start tumping over.

Just doing my part.

I'm not too stringent on most crimes as long as they don't affect other people. Want to be a prostitute? Stay healthy, let us tax you, and have a good time! Don't feel like wearing a motorcycle helmet? As long as your pea brain is covered by massive amounts of health and auto insurance, feel free to get it bashed in.

The crimes that I DESPISE, however, are the ones that inherently and negatively involve other people. The two worst of these offenses: drunk driving and littering. Both are entirely preventable and completely unnecessary. I FRICKING hate drunk drivers and litterers.

Aside from getting the hell out of their way, I can't do too much about drunk drivers (though I do call 911 on especially obvious ones). But litterers.... OOOOH, litterers! They really get my goat, and them I can do something about. Most times I'll just yell at them, which usually guilts them into picking up their trash (though, when confronted, one depressingly cynical dude just said, "Might as well." OK, Eeyore. Thanks).

Last night, though, I was presented with the opportunity to do a bit more. I went vigilante.

W, Marc and I were stopped at a stoplight, and the girl next to us (20-something, on the phone--which, if you know me at all, you know that I think talking on the phone while driving is one step up from kicking puppies) started using her wipers. Apparently she had a piece of paper under her windshield and waiting til she was at home to put said paper in a proper trash receptacle was simply asking TOO much. She was successful; the slip of paper fell to the ground.

At this point I still thought this was all accidental, so I tried to be a good samartian. I rolled down my window and told her (still on the phone, window up), "You just dropped some paper!" I was smiling, cause you know, I get it. We all make mistakes sometimes. Maybe she thought it was a leaf or something.

She smiled a dumb smile back and just shrugged. My smile faltered a little. "You don't want it?"

She kept smiling and shook her head. SHOOK HER DAMN HEAD.

The last wisps of my own smile dissolved. This smiley phone-driving bimbo didn't even care? I honestly couldn't say which was worse--the littering or the indifference.

The light was still red, so I got out of the car, grabbed the piece of paper off the ground, and shook it in her face. Frankly, fist-shaking is highly underrated as a method of social activism. Ms. "The World's My Waste Basket" just stared forward and pretend to ignore me. Hah! I shamed her. She was shamed.

I got back into the car to see two mouths slightly agape.

W: "Did you just pick up that girl's litter?"

Me: "Uh, yeah." I thought he was judging me for how gross it was to pick up strangers' trash off the ground or for over-reacting to a little innocent littering.

W: "That was awesome." Well, right on hubs. Way to support.

But here's the real bonus: The paper that the girl wiper-ed off? A parking ticket.

So not only was she dumb and apathetic, she was also not a very civically minded citizen AND she just provided me, her new arch-nemesis, with the means to bring about her downfall. MWAH HAH HAH HAH!

So now I'm writing a letter to the city of Los Angeles describing the above incident, stating that I have two witnesses (one of whom is a lawyer) who will verify that stupid smiley phone-chatty girl totally littered. As a concerned citizen, I will encourage the city to prosecute this girl to the fullest extent of the law. And I will send this in with her unpaid parking ticket.

Last I heard, the fine for littering in LA was $1,000. Shrug that one off, Smiley McRubbishtosser.

This is just how we roll on a Tuesday.

I haven't blogged much (read: any) this week because every night has been late, and I've been exhausted.

Monday night: Went to the LA date of the "This American Life" tour. SO GOOD. Seriously, "This American Life" is the best thing going on in... well, anything right now. Some people erroneously say that "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me" is the best show on NPR (ahem, Neal) but others (ahem, Ms. Chronicles) realize that TAL makes WWDTM look like poo. Just poo. (Let me just plug that TAL's new Showtime show that starts 3/22. And find out when Ira Glass & Co. are on your local NPR station. Then listen religiously. OK, done.) (Ooh, and the show that we went to will be broadcast this weekend. OK, really done.)

Wednesday night: Worked late at an event. Shmoozed. Got tired. Blah blah blah.

But Tuesday. TUESDAY. Tuesday was something to behold. Tuesday was Chaharshanbeh Suri.

Charwhadahahuh?

Chaharshanbeh is Persian for "the night before the last Wednesday of the year" ("the last Tuesday of the year" was too complicated?) and Suri means "red" (or "Scientology Messiah" depending on your point of reference). Persian New Year, or Nowruz, is just around the corner on March 20--always on the vernal equinox what with the Spring and the new birth, etc. So this is a crazy old festival. We're talking since 1700 BCE, back in old Zoroaster's day.

Anyhoo, Chaharshanbeh Suri is just this big party--tons of food, music, people--with two significantly unique attributes: Fire jumping and a dude in blackface and a satin jumpsuit. Oh yes.

The fire jumping is the main point of the evening. The whole point is to shed the bad juju of the old year and get some of the good juju of the new year. We do this by jumping over fires, set up illegally in people's backyards, and shouting "Sorkhi-ye to az man! Zardi-ye man az to!" which translates to I take your fiery red color! I leave you my sickly yellow pallor! Essentially.

If the one picture I have of me jumping the fire didn't make me look pretty much like proverbial cow jumping over the moon, I would've included said picture. Rest assured that I left my sickly yellow in the Zoroastrian year 2565 and took the fire's fiery red. I simply don't care enough about your cultural edification to show you the proof.

But we do have pictures of Haji Firuz, the troubadour-type character who helps ring in this celebration (played at my uncle's party by one of his friends). Haji Firuz sings and dances, plays the tambourine, and generally spreads good cheer. Wearing a satin jumpsuit. In black face.

To wit:

andand
So I'm not really sure how to address the fact that there was a dude in blackface. Clearly that's not cool. And yet we're talking at least 1000+ years of ancient tradition. It made me feel weird.

At the same time, my uncle dressed up as an old man and was also dancing around with Haji Firuz and the belly dancer. I tried looking this one up but couldn't find anything on it. Maybe it was like a Father Time kind of thing? A personal fetish? I don't know. He was clearly having a good time though:

Seriously, have any two still photographs ever captured someone doing the butt quite so perfectly?

So yes, it was a crazy party. Honestly, at least 200 people were there. A ton of food. Loud music. Much dancing. Fire jumping. A good time all around (minus the weirdness over the blackface).

One last party pic:
I had to capture this outfit for posterity. It was just so festive.

Saying it with pictures.

Such a dry spell of blog-worthy events lately, I thought I'd post 3,000 words instead (going, of course, by the proverbial equation of 1 picture equaling 1,000 words). If that's the case, this is a nice long blog, and I am a prolific writer.

At 20 weeks (round about 2/7/07), I wrote:
I have a broken blood vessel on the side of my nose. "It was tiny before I got pregnant--now it's grown so large it makes me look like an off-center Rudolf." And then: "I have developed this bizarre cowlick from all the extra hair I'm growing. Know that on the right side of my head, I'm sort of... askew, hair-wise. But at least it balances out the glowing broken capillary on my nose, on the other side of my face."

I finally captured the perfect storm of these two pretty accessories. Check it:









Next pic: Mom, Nik, and I at Wicked last weekend in my new favorite pregnancy outfit. The way I'm standing, you can't see the bean quite as well as I'd like, but I just frickin love that dress. Sooo comfies.









Last but certainly not least, W and I last night when we went out for his birthday. First of all, yes, my boob is wet. It is not premature lactation; there was a stain on my shirt, and I tried to get it out. Second, how bloody cute is my hubs? Yes he's rocking a beard, but it's Gosling-style, not "Junk in a Box"-style. (And, well, if that makes me Rachel McAdams, so be it.) And third, in case you're blind, I'm enormous.

Kickin' little.

As the wee one was pulverizing my insides today (which, btw, is a weird phenomenon--you always hear about/see babies kicking out, but oh my do they also kick in), I thought I'd include some random baby-moving stories I've heard recently.

• My aunt Tattie told me that when she was pregnant with my cousin Sasha, everyday at around 3 p.m. he would kick her in the same spot on her right side, over and over again. Once he was born, he would nap everyday around 3 p.m., and as he slept, he would kick one of his feet up--the foot that would have been on the right--over and over again.
  
• My mom told me that when my grandmother was pregnant with her, she could feel my mom "rocking" back and forth all the time. Then, from the time she was born until she was a teenager, my mom rocked herself to sleep. She said it was so bad that if anyone held her down to stop her from rocking, she'd wake up.
  
• My aunt Millie said that when she was pregnant with my cousin Sasan, Sasan's father, my uncle Sia, would talk to him through her belly when she was pregnant. Then in the delivery room as soon as he "emerged," Sia said something, and newborn Sasan turned his head and immediately looked over towards the sound of his voice. (This one actually freaks me out a little. I'm totally positive it was a beautiful moment and probably kind of magical, but in my mind, I can only see it as a horror movie. It's just this image of a crazy-eyed newborn baby head pivoting around like or Chucky... eesh... I know that newborns come out all crinkled and with their eyes shut; I'm just saying this is how it plays out in my head. Crazy Sasan, you freak me out man.)

So, totally weird, right? I mean, that things the bean is doing now may play out after she's born--even way after she's born? Like, my mom was 13 or 14 before she stopped displaying the habits she'd developed in the freaking womb. Nuts.

Once I heard all these insane stories, I DEFINITELY started paying more attention to what beananarama is doing in there. Here's her daily schedule as near as I can figure for now:

• 7-8 a.m.: Kick me a lot
• 12-1 p.m.: Kick me a lot
• 3-4 p.m.: Kick me a little
  
• 5-6 p.m.: KICK ME A LOT (Last night around this time, I was at an event for work, and I could barely concentrate on what people were saying to me because my intestines were getting such a vigorous massage.)
• 10-11 p.m.: Kick me in varying intensities.
  

We'll see if these remain at all consistent or if they bear out at all once she's a person here in the real world, but it's interesting to think about, no? (Of course, I only find it 'interesting' when I can wrap my brain around the fact that there will actually be a human being coming out of me in less than four months and that when that person learns to speak, she will call me "Mom." First we have to figure that whole thing out.)

Body building, part 2.

First there was getting used to not sucking in my stomach all the time. (Boys, this is something many women do. There are those women who stuff their bras, and then there are those of us who have to constantly remember to "stand up straight" i.e., hold in our tummy. There--the secret's out.) Once I got used to letting my belly go, it was quite liberating. Weird, but freeing.

Then there was watching the numbers on the scale go up. I'm not a scale-watcher by nature, but the nurses at my OBGYN's office are. Again, kind of liberating, seeing the weights settle on numbers that, before, I've only looked at in fear. I remind myself that it's just a reality shift, nothing more. I'm growing something. I'm storing reserves. It's all normal. I still may do a double take when the scale hits heights as yet unseen, but remember that those numbers on the scale are perfectly normal.

And yet there was still a challenge to be met. Still a mountain to be climbed. Still a river to cross.

I tried on a maternity bathing suit.

Hoo lawdy! It's one thing to enjoy not holding in your belly or giggle at a weight you've never hit before. It is quite another, people, to see yourself in the mirror and not recognize your body. At all.

I'm a gal now. I'm a plus size gal.

Again, I KNOW. I know that this is totally natural. I know that the weight I've put on is a relatively small amount (16 pounds as of 2/13, so probably up near 20 by now?). I know that I'm growing something inside me and this means my body needs the means to feed that something. Yada yada yada. This knowledge does not make looking at your two thighs -- now the volume of four thighs -- any easier.

Regular clothes don't fit at all anymore (I'm not sure what I was expecting? that they would magically expand with me?). Maternity clothes are a bit hit or miss. In white, I often look like a giant snowball. In red, a giant strawberry. In green, an olive.

W has been great. He always tells me that I look amazing. He reminds me that I'm a fertile goddess, rich with the earth's life-giving force.

Whatever. Even if you're a fertile life-giving mother-goddess, it's not cool if you don't like how you look in a bathing suit.

Craps'n'kicks... Snaps'n'pics... Snacks'n'licks...

...all rhyme with Braxton-Hicks. As in fake contractions. As in what I had last night.

According to drspock.com, Braxton-Hicks contractions are your uterus "practicing" for real labor. They can start anytime (usually in your second trimester) and can range from "barely noticeable" to "uncomfortable."

Do you remember when the orthodontist would tighten the wires on your braces and remark that you may feel a little "tender" for the next day or two? And then you were in tears anytime you tried to eat solid food for the next 48 hours? Orthodontists' "tender" = BH's "uncomfortable."

Picture it: Last night. Walking Lu in the park. Just finished a looooong day at work (and a long several days of playing single mommy to the neediest pets ever). In heels (why do so many of my bad stories start with that? shouldn't I have learned by now?). Have to pee, but with Lu so psyched to go out and Kermit screaming like a wounded banshee when I got home, I just dropped my stuff, grabbed her leash and "necklace" and we bolted. Get to the park and am standing there talking to random dog parkers (not sure if any of my T Street peeps read this, but my LA dog park acquaintances are NOWHERE NEAR AS COOL as you guys) when I start feeling sort of mild-ish cramps. Methinks, "Huh. Haven't had cramps in a while. That's weird." It took me a minute to remember that I haven't had cramps in a while because I'M PREGNANT.

As soon as I realized this was absolutely not normal, I grabbed Lu and we started booking it home. Because I've watched at least one medical show in my life that featured a pregnant patient, I'd heard of Braxton-Hicks.

I called my mom, answerer of all questions medical: "Mom, what do Braxton-Hicks contractions feel like?"

"Like regular contractions." (This is an especially helpful answer for someone who has not gone through labor yet and is on the verge of freaking the hell out.) "Are you having them?" She sounded like she was pissed.

"Um, maybe." I sounded like I was in trouble.

She told me to get home, put my feet up, pee, drink three glasses of water, 1/2 a glass of red wine, and DON'T DO ANYTHING ELSE.

Luckily, as I walked up with Lu, Wade was parking the car, home from his hero's quest of slaying the mighty Bar Exam. I didn't even say hi. I tossed the leash at him (which was not hard as Lu was out of her mind bucking and jumping around him) and told him, through the tears that were just beginning to fall, "I need to go inside and put my feet up. I'm having Braxton-Hicks." I might as well have told him we were having pizza for dinner. His response? "OK! Sounds good!" Clearly, Wade has not seen at least one medical show that featured a pregnant patient. He had no idea what I was talking about.

After following Dr. Mom's instructions, my uterus calmed the hell down and stopped hurting. To my great relief. (And, as soon as W realized what was going on, he was a peach. I parked my fat ass on the couch for the rest of the night and didn't move as he brought me water, wine, fruit, soup, and anything else I asked for. Good boy.)

So the moral of the story, for me at least, is to not take my body for granted. I've been super healthy and great-feeling (I bitch, but truly, I've been a lucky girl) for this whole pregnancy. That does not mean that I can get away with a milkshake snack everyday (for the calcium!) or running around like a crazy person. Rest. Good food. Moderate exercise. These are my priorities, renewed. Especially after my little wake-up call yesterday.

I GOT THE MESSAGE, BEAN.

Oh, and PS? You know how I sort of jokingly implied above that the BHs hurt? Um, they really hurt. Like spontaneous tears welling up hurt. Like, "My blase attitude about not needing an epidural might need to be rethunk" hurt. Like "Holy God, what have I gotten myself into?" hurt. Like that.

Mmmmm.... Tastes Culty!

I've had the link posted for a while over on the right, but the site just went live today: www.cultistshop.com. It's my cousin Yasi's new gig, and it's so trendy it hurts. Honestly, I feel old just browsing the clothes on there. But I don't think that frequently tired, rapidly expanding 30-year-olds are her target market anyways, so no worries.

BTW, Beyonce was seen wearing one of the t-shirts they sell. How's that for hot?