Bricklayer's Cleavage

A German-American friend of mine always thinks it's funny when his parents bring stuff back from the U.S. that boast containing "Real Cheese!" because, well, who would eat fake cheese? Although, maybe Velveeta would fall into that category. Oh, how I miss those bricks.

Somewhat along those lines, my mother send us a package recently with the usual stuff: People magazines, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and stuff from (yes, Russell) Old Navy. Apparently my pregnancy has helped her find her love for that store. She bought me a pair of maternity pants with a "real waist," which delighted me at first, because I'm getting pretty sick of these panel things that go up to my tits. Anyway, on the one occasion I've worn them — a client meeting with my boss last Tuesday — I realized the problem with those pants. Since I no longer have a real waist to speak of, such pants are kind of hard to keep from sliding down, revealing a mighty portion of ass crack, or, as Björn would say, "bricklayer's cleavage."

In other events in this 2008 Olympics games week, I once again fell off the wagon and found myself emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I have to admit, it kind of pissed me off since I had a great streak going on there for a while — over a month and a half without puking. But alas, I suppose my record would only suffice for shameful bronze in the pregnancy Olympics. I think I've managed to throw up more since April than I did throughout all of my K-State years, and that really is saying something, especially when you consider the amounts of Boone's and Natty Light that were consumed back then.