It's not just my mind.

The third trimester of this pregnancy apparently is bringing out not only my Inner Ditz, but also my Inner Clutz.

Have you seen that Tide commercial about the woman in the last months of pregnancy who has only one shirt that fits and keeps dripping food down her front? That's me. I even have that pink shirt.

This morning, in an attempt to feel like a grown up, I was seated on the leather sofa of a sophisticated downtown coffee house eating a slice of frittata. Two-thirds into the process, I attempted to cut the crust with my fork, and slid the entire thing off the plate, down my lap and all over the couch. Bits of egg and potato covered my shirt and one pant leg, and fell into the crevice between the cushions. I felt oh-so-chic as the barista tossed me a towel to mop myself up with.

As if that wasn't enough for one day... a few hours later I missed the bottom step of my porch, twisted my ankle, and ever so gracefully toppled onto my hands and knees. I'm fine now, thank you. No permanent damage done -- except to my self-image, perhaps.

I'm at 30.5 weeks now, and I suppose an updated photo of my front-heavy body is due. Maybe I'll get to it tomorrow.