As if being pregnant in August in New York City wasn’t enough, the fallout from my gossip column photo with the Celebrity is continuing.

Under normal circumstances, I would have been somewhat excited to have my image on Page Six. But, as it happened, the picture was quite unflattering. I looked enormous in it. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, the caption said they hoped I was pregnant.

“Was that you in the paper?” my landlord/next door neighbor Johnny asked as I waddled down the steps of my brownstone on the way to the adorable sandwich and smoothie shop.

“Yes,” I nodded. Now used to the question, I’d come up with a flat-lipped “aw, shucks” look to accompany its answer. I gave the look to Johnny and continued my waddle.

“I thought it was you!” he said, pleased with himself.

“Well … it was.” I nodded again, clearly not too thrilled about it.

“Wassa matter?” he asked. I met this inquiry with a “give me a break” expression. “Aw, come on,” he laughed. “You don’t look that big in real life.”

“Thanks,” I said, not quite comforted.

Once inside the adorable sandwich and smoothie shop, I heard someone call out my name. I turned to find Greg Weitz, freelance writer and resuscitated college friend, halfway through a wrap.

“Hey, Greg,” I said, sidling up to him. The last time I’d seen him, we’d spent the night at various Manhattan bars seeing if my pregnant belly would help him meet women, all in service of a men’s magazine article he was writing called “Who’s the Best Wingman?”

“Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” he said. “At least not in person.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows in a way that said, “I saw your picture.” I gave him the flat-lipped “aw shucks” look. He said, “I’m glad to see you look much better in person.”

Aw-shucks turned into full-on scowl.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “Don’t be touchy. You’re pregnant! You’re supposed to look big!”

“I’m pregnant,” I said. “I’m supposed to be touchy.”

“Fair enough,” he said. Then he raised his arms and said, “Let’s hug it out.”

“You have to be kidding me,” I said.

“Let’s hug it out,” followed by a particular term for a female dog, is all over the place these days. Taken from “Entourage,” the HBO series about a movie star and his posse of friends, the sentence, uttered by the star’s over-the-top agent, has become an in-the-know catchphrase. It’s also become a big marketing tool – apparently, you can download it off the Web and make it your cell phone ring tone.

Don’t get me wrong. I love “Entourage” as much as the next guy. But “let’s hug it out” is clearly the latest watercooler tagline. And part of the beauty of living in Brooklyn and working from home is avoiding such things. Had Greg taken a turn for the Dilbert?

“Did you just bust out the latest ‘nanu, nanu’?” I asked him.

He chuckled and said, “I prefer to see it as the new millennium’s ‘Dyn-O-Mite.'” I smiled, happy to see he was far from losing his sense of irony. “I thought you’d appreciate it,” he explained, “since you’re part of an entourage now.”

“Ha-ha,” I deadpanned.

“And since your buddy’s on HBO too …” It was now crystal clear he was mocking me.

“You’re really clever, Greg,” I said, sitting down. “Now give me the rest of your sandwich.”

A while later, I headed back home. I passed in front of Vinnie’s, the pizzeria on my corner, on my way.

“Hey, Eve.” It was Johnny again, seated at the table in front of Vinnie’s with the usual crowd. After I said “hi” back, Johnny turned to his companions and said, “Eve’s famous now. There was a picture of her in the gossip pages with a celebrity pal.”

“Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” said the old man in a Yankees cap.

“You got it,” I laughed. “Not quite though.”

“She don’t like the picture,” Johnny explained. “You’re right not to,” he said. With a quick shake of the head he added, “Wasn’t flattering.”

“Thanks a lot, Johnny,” I said, faux-outraged.

“Don’t be mad,” he said, smiling. Then he raised his gold-braceleted arms and said, “Let’s hug it out.”

The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.