Ahhhhhh.

So, I'm finally on maternity leave.

Yippeeeee!

Ahem.

One of the bellmen who goes by "Friday" (I don't know why, I can never get a straight answer out of him) was doing bench presses the other day on his break.
I sauntered over to the fitness area and posed in profile to the mirrored wall.
Pulling my uniform polo shirt tight over my gigantic, preggo belly, I said, "Man, I've really got to do something about this gut, more crunches or something. And I really should lay off the beer!"
Friday started laughing (probably not a good idea while bench pressing!), and said that that was a "keg" belly, not a beer belly.
I have to agree!

Well, the crunches will have to wait a few more weeks. The doc wants me to go at least to 37 weeks gestation (I'm expecting twins, so 36 weeks is full-term), and then (if I don't go into labor on my own) he'll induce me on July 9th.

When it's convenient for him.

Whatever works, I guess. I just want to avoid a c-section at all costs, because I really don't want to be cut open. Ugh!

And just FYI, for the three people who read this blog, the babies I'm expecting are not mine.

I'm a surrogate mother.

That's all I'm saying, because of confidentiality, etc, etc.

I wanted to be a surrogate for quite some time, and I finally realized I'd better hop to it before I got too old!

It's been quite the adventure so far, including an initial miscarriage last summer, followed by the repeat embryo transfer in November, and then finding out that it was twins!

Well, it's not like I haven't had twins before, my own are 13 now.
But there's a big difference between carrying twins at 23, and carrying twins at 37!
Everything ACHES.
Hence the maternity leave! Got to have some time to put my feet up, especially if I'm supposed to avoid early labor.

I've also found that the hormones make me want to blurt out all the incredibly rude (yet accurate) thoughts running through my head.

Like how I wanted to tell the woman in the waiting room at my OB yesterday to turn her fucking cell phone off NOW, or go out into the hallway.
She wasn't even a patient, just accompanying a nervous friend, and she talked on her phone, in a carrying tone of voice, for over an hour.
Just when I'd think the torture would be over, because the call was, she'd dial a new number and the agony would begin again.

Maybe she wanted the attention, dropping lines like "Ritz-Carlton", and "$800,000"

Whoop-de-do.

She reminded me of the hotel guests who come into the spa and want to charge something to their room, and say "I'm in Penthouse 36."

Who gives a flying fuck, anyway. I need an actual ROOM NUMBER to charge anything, and even the penthouses have actual numbers, like penthouse 36 on the 19th floor will be 1936, DUH!
It's not like we're the Bellagio, or Caesars!
We're the cheapest joint on the strip, for God's sake.

But I digress, sorry.

Had some fun in the last week at work, there was an Impersonators' Convention going on, and I got to see quite a few ersatz-celebrities, including Arnie, who wanted my colleague 4chun Cookie to elope to Kahliforrrnia with him, and asked if her name was Maria, Richard Gere, George Burns (sans cigar, to my disappointment), and Barney Fife, in uniform!
My other colleague A. saw an extremely tall Paris Hilton, and a remarkably un-rotted Anna Nicole Smith, plus B.B. King.
All in all, there were quite a lot of double-takes in the casino!

Well, I guess I'll check what's on the boob-tube now, probably crap, but I might get lucky!

Carry on and continue enjoying your weekend!