Me: Things currently in our garbage can - 3 chicken carcasses, 2 grocery bags full of dog poop and 1 dead squirrel. It's like the 3 days of Christmas, but grosser.
Michael: Woah. Wait, you mean Ginger didn't eat the dead squirrel?
Me: Of course not, there were perfectly good turds to eat...I was cleaning those up when I came across the squirrel. I think I'd like Ginger better if she actually ate all the poop and not just some of the poop.
Can you just throw away a dead squirrel? I wasn't sure what else to do with it...I mean, I'm not interested in hosting funerals for animals I don't even know. We can't have word get out that I'll bury everything that dies in our yard. We'd suddenly have a bunch of old animals wandering in the backyard waiting to die.
Michael: True...we already have one animal we want to die...can't be taking on more.
Me: Anyway, I imagine the trash guy is happier with the dead squirrel than the 20 bags of dog crap we throw away each week. Maybe we should start composting...but I wouldn't want to eat anything growing from poop and carcasses.
Michael: I think a burial at sea is the preferred squirrel way. A solemn ceremony where other squirrels can look on in mourning.
Me: Are you saying I should've flushed him? Our toilet gets backed up if you flush a used tissue...remind me to get a card and some cash for the trash guys this week.
Showing posts with label Random. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Random. Show all posts
Friday, December 16, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Why It's Difficult To Be Me
Thanks to a slight case of OCD, I have very clear definitions of right and wrong on certain hot-button issues.
For instance, whether counting stairs as you climb them increases your likelihood of not falling, if insisting food should be separated by color before eating it is appropriate and, perhaps most importantly, which way the toilet paper hangs.
Most people have a preference on toilet paper orientation; I have a compulsive need for the roll to hang over, not under. OhMyGodNotUnderTheWorldWillBurstIntoFlamesIfTheToiletPaperHangsUnder.
I have been known to adjust how the toilet paper is hanging in other people's homes. I'm sure they would thank me for righting this clear wrong; if only they knew I was the mysterious toilet paper adjuster - I tend to not broadcast my random acts of toilet paper kindness and usually perform these good deeds when there are multiple people around who could beblamed applauded for promoting proper toilet paper hanging awareness.
We go through a lot of toilet paper at our house these days. I work from home, we have a nanny here watching The Bean most days and Michael doesn't believe in tissues and he's had a cold for about a year and half now.
The other day we were nearing the end of the roll and I didn't want the nanny to have to navigate her way around The Closet Which Holds Everything Ever to find the toilet paper. So I pulled out a roll and put it in the bathroom in case we ran out.
I have defined a new level of crazy.
Naturally, the nanny hung the toilet paper under. After my seizure, I simply got up and left the bathroom without changing the toilet paper's orientation.
Because I didn't want to offend her. I mean, you know how often people are offended by that sort of thing. It's right up there with dropping F-bombs, discussing religion over dinner and racism.
For instance, whether counting stairs as you climb them increases your likelihood of not falling, if insisting food should be separated by color before eating it is appropriate and, perhaps most importantly, which way the toilet paper hangs.
Most people have a preference on toilet paper orientation; I have a compulsive need for the roll to hang over, not under. OhMyGodNotUnderTheWorldWillBurstIntoFlamesIfTheToiletPaperHangsUnder.
I have been known to adjust how the toilet paper is hanging in other people's homes. I'm sure they would thank me for righting this clear wrong; if only they knew I was the mysterious toilet paper adjuster - I tend to not broadcast my random acts of toilet paper kindness and usually perform these good deeds when there are multiple people around who could be
We go through a lot of toilet paper at our house these days. I work from home, we have a nanny here watching The Bean most days and Michael doesn't believe in tissues and he's had a cold for about a year and half now.
The other day we were nearing the end of the roll and I didn't want the nanny to have to navigate her way around The Closet Which Holds Everything Ever to find the toilet paper. So I pulled out a roll and put it in the bathroom in case we ran out.
I have defined a new level of crazy.
Naturally, the nanny hung the toilet paper under. After my seizure, I simply got up and left the bathroom without changing the toilet paper's orientation.
Because I didn't want to offend her. I mean, you know how often people are offended by that sort of thing. It's right up there with dropping F-bombs, discussing religion over dinner and racism.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Update: I'm Sorry Lunch
Apparently, my lunch did not try to kill me. Some other disease-ridden grossness got to me while I was out on my lunch break.
I know this because I have gone through three outfits and The Bean has gone through twice that many since 5 this morning when her vomit fest started.
So I owe an apology to my lunch. But not my lunch break. Which is still the root of all evil.
I know this because I have gone through three outfits and The Bean has gone through twice that many since 5 this morning when her vomit fest started.
So I owe an apology to my lunch. But not my lunch break. Which is still the root of all evil.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Death by Lunch Break
The last time I took a lunch break was roughly three and a half years ago. Overdeveloped work ethic? Martyr complex? Does it matter?
Yesterday I decided I was going to take a lunch break. I never do nice things for myself (because taking a lunch break is a real splurge) so I wasn't going to go too crazy, just pick up a sandwich from a new shop in town and bring it home to eat. I was desperate for a good sandwich. That is how pathetic my life is.
So at 11:30, I leave the confines of my home office and venture out. In public.
I enter the sandwich shop nervous because new things are intimidating for me. What if I don't know how to order a sandwich the proper way and everyone points and laughs? But I'm excited. I've been jonesing for a sandwich since before pregnancy.
I walk up to the counter.
"Yeah, we're not doing lunch today."
No good reason. This is the only day ever.
Of course it is.
Now I'm in a panic because I didn't account for needing a back up lunch plan. I buckle under the pressure and suffer from extreme unimagination (I think I just made that word up) and head to the local, crappy noodle shop. It's three feet from the sandwich shop, so naturally it's the only thing I can come up with on short notice.
Since it's now only 11:35, there is me and one other woman in the joint placing a to-go order.
Yep. They gave my order to other woman and I have to wait for them to make my order. Again.
This is why I don't leave the house. Lunch is a production.
For some odd reason, the noodle shop gives me her order and my re-made order so now I have all the food ever. I decide to take this opportunity to practice being a glass half-full girl and am pleased I now also have dinner for tonight.
After relaying the story of the Great Lunch Outing of 2011 to the nanny, my girlfriend, Michael and a neighbor I ran into on the street, I decide to laugh the whole thing off because it's just lunch for God's sake.
Except when you're me.
At 4:30 I eat one of the items I ordered -- tofu noodle crappiness. By 6:30, I realize something is drastically wrong with me.
That's right kids. Food poisoning.
Let's pause here for a moment to introduce two other relevant facts to this story:
The Bean, thankfully, did not get the memo about Daylight Savings and I am able to put her down at 6:30. She's usually good to sleep until a dream feed at 11. So at least I can wallow in my food poisoning misery without also carrying a child around.
The puking commenced at about 7.
At which time, The Bean woke up and would lose her eyeballs every time I left the room.
The scene in my bathroom looked something like this:
All because I took a lunch break.
Yesterday I decided I was going to take a lunch break. I never do nice things for myself (because taking a lunch break is a real splurge) so I wasn't going to go too crazy, just pick up a sandwich from a new shop in town and bring it home to eat. I was desperate for a good sandwich. That is how pathetic my life is.
So at 11:30, I leave the confines of my home office and venture out. In public.
I enter the sandwich shop nervous because new things are intimidating for me. What if I don't know how to order a sandwich the proper way and everyone points and laughs? But I'm excited. I've been jonesing for a sandwich since before pregnancy.
I walk up to the counter.
"Yeah, we're not doing lunch today."
No good reason. This is the only day ever.
Of course it is.
Now I'm in a panic because I didn't account for needing a back up lunch plan. I buckle under the pressure and suffer from extreme unimagination (I think I just made that word up) and head to the local, crappy noodle shop. It's three feet from the sandwich shop, so naturally it's the only thing I can come up with on short notice.
Since it's now only 11:35, there is me and one other woman in the joint placing a to-go order.
Yep. They gave my order to other woman and I have to wait for them to make my order. Again.
This is why I don't leave the house. Lunch is a production.
For some odd reason, the noodle shop gives me her order and my re-made order so now I have all the food ever. I decide to take this opportunity to practice being a glass half-full girl and am pleased I now also have dinner for tonight.
After relaying the story of the Great Lunch Outing of 2011 to the nanny, my girlfriend, Michael and a neighbor I ran into on the street, I decide to laugh the whole thing off because it's just lunch for God's sake.
Except when you're me.
At 4:30 I eat one of the items I ordered -- tofu noodle crappiness. By 6:30, I realize something is drastically wrong with me.
That's right kids. Food poisoning.
Let's pause here for a moment to introduce two other relevant facts to this story:
- Michael is working late on this particular evening. Like 10 PM late. So I'm on my own.
- Ginger, the turd connoisseur, is having an extreme flare-up of arthritis and can barely walk.
The Bean, thankfully, did not get the memo about Daylight Savings and I am able to put her down at 6:30. She's usually good to sleep until a dream feed at 11. So at least I can wallow in my food poisoning misery without also carrying a child around.
The puking commenced at about 7.
At which time, The Bean woke up and would lose her eyeballs every time I left the room.
The scene in my bathroom looked something like this:
All because I took a lunch break.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Deep Thoughts for a Friday Morning
From the outside looking in, being 4 months old seems a lot like living inside a giant claw machine game.
How frustrating.
Monday, October 31, 2011
A Post About That Holiday Which Is Technically Today, But Has Been Going On For A Week.
When one is twelve years old, few things are as awesome as Halloween falling on a Saturday. You have visions of waking up at 7 AM and, over the course of twelve hours, amassing a candy stash large enough to fill the Grand Canyon.
And then, of course, there's the added bonus of a potential sleepover party since it's Saturday and that's what twelve-year old girls do.
Through a series of crafty political maneuvers, I managed to get invited to a slumber party on Halloween night at the house of one of the more popular girls at school.
Some added background information: I was abit of a tremendously sheltered, naive girl. I believed in Santa Claus until I was 9 or 10 (not joking) and the scariest movie I had seen until this night was The Wizard of Oz. The Wicked Witch of the West sent me screaming, terrified out of the family room and into the safety of my Strawberry Shortcake bedroom.
Just in case you forgot, I am not built out of sturdy materials. A strong gust of wind can bring on heart palpitations (What was that? Is someone sneaking up on me? Didn't I read about a psycho killer the other day? OH MY GOD THEY FOUND ME RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! Oh...it was this leaf falling out of the tree.)
Let's sum up the key points we've gathered so far:
The deeper I get into this post, the more I understand about the adult I am today. Sigh. Let's move on.
Popular Polly's parents were Halloween fanatics. Yes...those people.
They had transformed the house into a haunted house for the evening's festivities. So when I knocked on the door and it creaked open slowly revealing a pitch black house and nothing else, I nearly crapped my pants and ran. Except. It's Popular Polly's house and not embarrassing oneself in front of the popular kids at school is infinitely higher on the twelve-year old's survival list than actually staying alive.
I waved to my mom in the driveway, took a deep breath and took a step to the door.
My brain began a speedy analysis on the situation: Doors do not usually open themselves. So someone or something opened that door. I can hear kids laughing further in the house. So other people made it past the front door alive.
Decision: Run as fast as you can through the front door and into a room with lights to avoid being eaten by a zombie.
It worked! I was alive, panting and in a kitchen full of giggling pre-teen girls.
Popular Polly's mom, dressed as a witch, walked in behind me laughing. "You should've seen her run!" The flaw in my plan was immediately apparently...I had not taken into account the "cool" factor of running like my underpants had caught fire. My mind raced for a way to save face before I was the butt of the evening's jokes...
"I was just excited to get inside and see what everyone was laughing at."
Not my most stellar retort, but no one was laughing and pointing at me so it did the job.
The next half hour was my favorite of the party: we sat around and ate pizza in the brightly lit kitchen waiting for everyone to show up.
The first half of the party was manageable. I survived being blindfolded and forced to touch weird things in bowls made to feel like brains, eyeballs and intestines. I lived through walking around the "haunted house" in the garage and kept my dignity due to the pitch black covering my faces of abject horror.
But I knew my minutes were limited. My doom had been spelled out and engraved right on the invitation: Horror Movie Slumber Party - Sleep If You Dare...
It was a large family room on the ground level. Glass sliding doors led out to a backyard with a pool. Two couches and an enormous TV were the only furniture in the room. I'm sure it was a lovely room. In the daytime. On a day when my murder wasn't so imminent.
A line of seven girls, including me, were laid out with sleeping bags and pillows. Popcorn was popped and the movie began.
Which movie, you ask? Why...Friday the 13th naturally. How appropriate for a gaggle of pre-teen girls.
Since hiding under the blankets or behind one's hands is undoubtedly "lame," I concocted my greatest diversion yet. Each time things in the movie got too tense (you know, like during the opening credits) for my fragile constitution, I would suddenly have an urge for popcorn. This way, as people were being stalked and slashed, I would safely be rummaging in the bowl for the perfect piece of popcorn.
I spent a lot of time eating popcorn.
At some point, I realized I needed to make sure my ruse was working. So somewhere in the middle of the movie, I started my scan of the room.
Girls hiding behind sleeping bags and screeching whenever someone was gored? Check.
Popular Polly's mom looking maddeningly gleeful at our fright? Check.
Jason standing outside the glass doors with a knife in his hand staring inside at us? Check.
WAIT. WHAT?
My heart stopped and I looked slowly around. Everyone else was too engrossed in the movie to notice our visitor. He started to open the doors and I prepared to scream bloody murder...except that's not cool.
Instead I inched closer to the hallway. When someone else noticed him and started to scream, I sprung into action. And by action, I mean I sprinted down the hallway into the house. I heard everyone running behind me to escape.
Girls were streaming out the front door, screeching at the top of their lungs. I was halfway back to my house when I heard Popular Polly's mom yelling after us. It was Popular Polly's dad dressed up as Jason.
I walked up the block and watched girls climbing out of bushes and out from under cars as we all headed back to the party. Popular Polly's mom was less enthused when she realized she just tacked on two more hours to the awake portion of the party because preteen girls really know how to milk a moment.
Everyone slept in starts and fits. Convinced we would be under attack again at any minute. Everyone, except me.
I slept like a damn log.
I was nuzzled in my sleeping bag pleased with the knowledge that even popular girls get scared and run like hell when faced with an undead murdering man in a hockey mask...but more importantly, I could outrun all those other bitches if I had to.
And yes, I'm going there...so you may as well accept it or simply stop here and come back tomorrow.
Token child in a Halloween costume photo:
And then, of course, there's the added bonus of a potential sleepover party since it's Saturday and that's what twelve-year old girls do.
Through a series of crafty political maneuvers, I managed to get invited to a slumber party on Halloween night at the house of one of the more popular girls at school.
Some added background information: I was a
Just in case you forgot, I am not built out of sturdy materials. A strong gust of wind can bring on heart palpitations (What was that? Is someone sneaking up on me? Didn't I read about a psycho killer the other day? OH MY GOD THEY FOUND ME RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! Oh...it was this leaf falling out of the tree.)
Let's sum up the key points we've gathered so far:
- Twelve-year old me drastically unprepared for a Halloween-themed sleepover
- Sleepover at most popular girl's house
- Giant weenie of a child (and adult)
The deeper I get into this post, the more I understand about the adult I am today. Sigh. Let's move on.
Popular Polly's parents were Halloween fanatics. Yes...those people.
They had transformed the house into a haunted house for the evening's festivities. So when I knocked on the door and it creaked open slowly revealing a pitch black house and nothing else, I nearly crapped my pants and ran. Except. It's Popular Polly's house and not embarrassing oneself in front of the popular kids at school is infinitely higher on the twelve-year old's survival list than actually staying alive.
I waved to my mom in the driveway, took a deep breath and took a step to the door.
My brain began a speedy analysis on the situation: Doors do not usually open themselves. So someone or something opened that door. I can hear kids laughing further in the house. So other people made it past the front door alive.
Decision: Run as fast as you can through the front door and into a room with lights to avoid being eaten by a zombie.
It worked! I was alive, panting and in a kitchen full of giggling pre-teen girls.
Popular Polly's mom, dressed as a witch, walked in behind me laughing. "You should've seen her run!" The flaw in my plan was immediately apparently...I had not taken into account the "cool" factor of running like my underpants had caught fire. My mind raced for a way to save face before I was the butt of the evening's jokes...
"I was just excited to get inside and see what everyone was laughing at."
Not my most stellar retort, but no one was laughing and pointing at me so it did the job.
The next half hour was my favorite of the party: we sat around and ate pizza in the brightly lit kitchen waiting for everyone to show up.
The first half of the party was manageable. I survived being blindfolded and forced to touch weird things in bowls made to feel like brains, eyeballs and intestines. I lived through walking around the "haunted house" in the garage and kept my dignity due to the pitch black covering my faces of abject horror.
But I knew my minutes were limited. My doom had been spelled out and engraved right on the invitation: Horror Movie Slumber Party - Sleep If You Dare...
It was a large family room on the ground level. Glass sliding doors led out to a backyard with a pool. Two couches and an enormous TV were the only furniture in the room. I'm sure it was a lovely room. In the daytime. On a day when my murder wasn't so imminent.
A line of seven girls, including me, were laid out with sleeping bags and pillows. Popcorn was popped and the movie began.
Which movie, you ask? Why...Friday the 13th naturally. How appropriate for a gaggle of pre-teen girls.
Since hiding under the blankets or behind one's hands is undoubtedly "lame," I concocted my greatest diversion yet. Each time things in the movie got too tense (you know, like during the opening credits) for my fragile constitution, I would suddenly have an urge for popcorn. This way, as people were being stalked and slashed, I would safely be rummaging in the bowl for the perfect piece of popcorn.
I spent a lot of time eating popcorn.
At some point, I realized I needed to make sure my ruse was working. So somewhere in the middle of the movie, I started my scan of the room.
Girls hiding behind sleeping bags and screeching whenever someone was gored? Check.
Popular Polly's mom looking maddeningly gleeful at our fright? Check.
Jason standing outside the glass doors with a knife in his hand staring inside at us? Check.
WAIT. WHAT?
My heart stopped and I looked slowly around. Everyone else was too engrossed in the movie to notice our visitor. He started to open the doors and I prepared to scream bloody murder...except that's not cool.
Instead I inched closer to the hallway. When someone else noticed him and started to scream, I sprung into action. And by action, I mean I sprinted down the hallway into the house. I heard everyone running behind me to escape.
Girls were streaming out the front door, screeching at the top of their lungs. I was halfway back to my house when I heard Popular Polly's mom yelling after us. It was Popular Polly's dad dressed up as Jason.
I walked up the block and watched girls climbing out of bushes and out from under cars as we all headed back to the party. Popular Polly's mom was less enthused when she realized she just tacked on two more hours to the awake portion of the party because preteen girls really know how to milk a moment.
Everyone slept in starts and fits. Convinced we would be under attack again at any minute. Everyone, except me.
I slept like a damn log.
I was nuzzled in my sleeping bag pleased with the knowledge that even popular girls get scared and run like hell when faced with an undead murdering man in a hockey mask...but more importantly, I could outrun all those other bitches if I had to.
And yes, I'm going there...so you may as well accept it or simply stop here and come back tomorrow.
Token child in a Halloween costume photo:
 |
| Isn't she adora-bull?! |
Monday, October 24, 2011
Let's Play a Game
Because it's not bad enough to be writing a blog about my daughter, I thought it would be fun to add a weekly game where I upload a God-awful photo of her and we all try to come up with the snarkiest caption.
This way, when she's old enough to understand all this, she can really hate me.
The winner enjoys knowing they are the ruler of the snarky kingdom for a day.
Shall we?
Let me start the fun:
"The Bean is really devouring her new book."
Participate in the comments...you know you want to...
This way, when she's old enough to understand all this, she can really hate me.
The winner enjoys knowing they are the ruler of the snarky kingdom for a day.
Shall we?
Let me start the fun:
"The Bean is really devouring her new book."
Participate in the comments...you know you want to...
Friday, October 7, 2011
The Day Christmas Was Stolen
A few weeks back it was Mrs. D-Zo Christmas.
Friends of ours wanted to meet The Bean and since they have a 9-month old, we needed to meet during the day before both of our children grew horns and hooves and turned into night demons from the underworld.
You guys are never going to guess where they suggested we meet up.
The Ice Cream Festival!!!
A festival!!!!
Of ice cream!!!!
Yes, please.
Since I'm never one to build expectations so high in my head that they could never possibly be met, I immediately started dreaming about all the ice cream deliciousness I'd encounter. Red velvet ice cream is the new hotness, and naturally I'm going to want to sample some good ol' perfectly executed chocolate, and maybe, because you need to be adventurous at these things, I'll get myself a tiny scoop of some bacon-infused something or other and wash it down with peanut butter ice cream because it turns out bacon ice cream is nasty. It was going to be a most excellent outing.
Day of, we arrive at the park. The Bean is strapped in. I've eaten a piece of celery all day and am totally prepared to get my ice cream on.
When we couldn't immediately find which part of the park the festival was taking place in, I should have suspected something. But it's a pretty big park so we walked around.
A loud noise a few hundred yards from where we were caught my attention.
Aha!
We turned a bend and there in its glory was the ice cream festival!
Although...I wouldn't really call it a festival. A festival brings to mind row after row of vendor booths, weird artsy things, live musicians, port-o-potties and some stoners.
Leading the path to "the lane of 6 booths" festival, was an ice cream truck. You know, the guy who sells Bomb Pops, Choco Tacos and Sno Cones. And from what I could tell, his line was the longest.
Ruh-Roh Shaggy.
But I stay optimistic, determined to have an orgasmic ice cream experience. We decide to make a lap up and down ice cream alley.
Our recon, did not provide the glimmer of hope I was seeking.
At the opposite end from the ice cream truck was the "live music." A DJ who was blaring into his microphone asking the audience "DO YOU LIKE TO WEAR JEANS?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!! DO YOU LIKE TO WEAR JEANS?????"
Um...sometimes?
And then, amazingly, a rap song about wearing jeans came across the loud system.
We passed 6 or 7 booths. 4 of these booths were selling things OTHER than ice cream. Cup cakes, funnel cake, hot dogs.
I was beginning to think we were at the crap food festival.
2...TWO booths had ice cream. The lines, as you might imagine, wrapped around the park. But I was getting ice cream dammit.
I'm so cute when I'm delusional.
We hear the murmurs about 5 minutes after we get in line. "They're out of ice cream."
You can wait for my shocked face. Wait for it...
It now made sense why the ice cream man was making out like a bandit. I was tempted to run to the grocery store, pick up some Ben & Jerry's and make a killing charging $4 a cup.
We left with Michael having not sampled anything and I had a tasting of some strawberry/lemon sorbet. While delicious - is in no way, shape or form ice cream.
Am I wrong in thinking that the first rule of the ice cream festival is have some mother f*cking ice cream???
We headed straight to our local ice cream shop, because once ice cream is emblazoned on my neurons, we better be getting some damn ice cream.
I get a feather up my ass about ordering a coffee milkshake. See note above about setting realistic expectations. It's all I can think about. Remembering how much I love coffee milkshakes. I haven't had one in YEARS. Life is about to be awesome again.
Everyone from the failed ice cream festival had the same idea we did. More lines. Yea. But this place is equipped with ice cream; a novel business plan for sure. And I order my coffee milkshake.
I really should've just ordered a chocolate sundae and drowned that shit in fudge, peanuts and whipped cream.
Moral of the story: While hard to believe, ice cream can indeed be the cause of great disappointment.
le sigh.
Friends of ours wanted to meet The Bean and since they have a 9-month old, we needed to meet during the day before both of our children grew horns and hooves and turned into night demons from the underworld.
You guys are never going to guess where they suggested we meet up.
The Ice Cream Festival!!!
A festival!!!!
Of ice cream!!!!
Yes, please.
Since I'm never one to build expectations so high in my head that they could never possibly be met, I immediately started dreaming about all the ice cream deliciousness I'd encounter. Red velvet ice cream is the new hotness, and naturally I'm going to want to sample some good ol' perfectly executed chocolate, and maybe, because you need to be adventurous at these things, I'll get myself a tiny scoop of some bacon-infused something or other and wash it down with peanut butter ice cream because it turns out bacon ice cream is nasty. It was going to be a most excellent outing.
Day of, we arrive at the park. The Bean is strapped in. I've eaten a piece of celery all day and am totally prepared to get my ice cream on.
When we couldn't immediately find which part of the park the festival was taking place in, I should have suspected something. But it's a pretty big park so we walked around.
A loud noise a few hundred yards from where we were caught my attention.
Aha!
We turned a bend and there in its glory was the ice cream festival!
Although...I wouldn't really call it a festival. A festival brings to mind row after row of vendor booths, weird artsy things, live musicians, port-o-potties and some stoners.
Leading the path to "the lane of 6 booths" festival, was an ice cream truck. You know, the guy who sells Bomb Pops, Choco Tacos and Sno Cones. And from what I could tell, his line was the longest.
Ruh-Roh Shaggy.
But I stay optimistic, determined to have an orgasmic ice cream experience. We decide to make a lap up and down ice cream alley.
Our recon, did not provide the glimmer of hope I was seeking.
At the opposite end from the ice cream truck was the "live music." A DJ who was blaring into his microphone asking the audience "DO YOU LIKE TO WEAR JEANS?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!! DO YOU LIKE TO WEAR JEANS?????"
Um...sometimes?
And then, amazingly, a rap song about wearing jeans came across the loud system.
We passed 6 or 7 booths. 4 of these booths were selling things OTHER than ice cream. Cup cakes, funnel cake, hot dogs.
I was beginning to think we were at the crap food festival.
2...TWO booths had ice cream. The lines, as you might imagine, wrapped around the park. But I was getting ice cream dammit.
I'm so cute when I'm delusional.
We hear the murmurs about 5 minutes after we get in line. "They're out of ice cream."
You can wait for my shocked face. Wait for it...
It now made sense why the ice cream man was making out like a bandit. I was tempted to run to the grocery store, pick up some Ben & Jerry's and make a killing charging $4 a cup.
We left with Michael having not sampled anything and I had a tasting of some strawberry/lemon sorbet. While delicious - is in no way, shape or form ice cream.
Am I wrong in thinking that the first rule of the ice cream festival is have some mother f*cking ice cream???
We headed straight to our local ice cream shop, because once ice cream is emblazoned on my neurons, we better be getting some damn ice cream.
I get a feather up my ass about ordering a coffee milkshake. See note above about setting realistic expectations. It's all I can think about. Remembering how much I love coffee milkshakes. I haven't had one in YEARS. Life is about to be awesome again.
Everyone from the failed ice cream festival had the same idea we did. More lines. Yea. But this place is equipped with ice cream; a novel business plan for sure. And I order my coffee milkshake.
I really should've just ordered a chocolate sundae and drowned that shit in fudge, peanuts and whipped cream.
Moral of the story: While hard to believe, ice cream can indeed be the cause of great disappointment.
le sigh.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Parental Dictionary
Snorgasm [sn.awr.gaz.uhm] - noun
The profound, life-changing sensation new parents have when they finally get some sleep.
As a noun: After dealing with the fussy baby for 10 straight hours, I fell on the bed and immediately had a snorgasm.
As an adjective: The baby took an unexpected nap this afternoon, so I decided to do the same. It was snorgasmic.
As an interesting note, in a study I made up for the purposes of this joke: when given the option, 4 out of 5 new parents will opt for a snorgasm over an orgasm.
The profound, life-changing sensation new parents have when they finally get some sleep.
As a noun: After dealing with the fussy baby for 10 straight hours, I fell on the bed and immediately had a snorgasm.
As an adjective: The baby took an unexpected nap this afternoon, so I decided to do the same. It was snorgasmic.
As an interesting note, in a study I made up for the purposes of this joke: when given the option, 4 out of 5 new parents will opt for a snorgasm over an orgasm.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Another Day in Paradise
This is the post where Michael and I solidify our position as "Worst Parents Ever" and I get nasty hate mail--mainly from my family--about how evil we are.
But I assure you, we love The Bean with all our hearts and find her beyond adorable. I threaten to eat her at least 5 times a day because of the cuteness.
We just can't help our unfailing objectivity and disturbingly warped senses of humor.
Michael has a new nickname for The Bean.
Phil.
As in:
Let me help you understand why:
Check out that hairline. You have to admit, there's a resemblance.
Before you go persecuting Michael, wait.
I've been staring at the following photo of Michael and The Bean trying to figure out who she reminds me of.
I figured it out.
I'm going to hell.
Puttin' on the Ritz has been in my head a lot lately.
But I assure you, we love The Bean with all our hearts and find her beyond adorable. I threaten to eat her at least 5 times a day because of the cuteness.
We just can't help our unfailing objectivity and disturbingly warped senses of humor.
Michael has a new nickname for The Bean.
Phil.
As in:
Let me help you understand why:
Check out that hairline. You have to admit, there's a resemblance.
Before you go persecuting Michael, wait.
I've been staring at the following photo of Michael and The Bean trying to figure out who she reminds me of.
I figured it out.
I'm going to hell.
Puttin' on the Ritz has been in my head a lot lately.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Prioritizing is Important
We are in the final countdown folks. I am considered full-term and can go into labor anytime from right.this.very.second. to 3 months (read: weeks) from now.
Naturally, everything is in a state of complete disarray here and nothing is anywhere near to where it should be. But this isn't another post about all the stuff left to do. You're all pretty aware that The Bean will be living in a dog crate set up in the middle of the room we're calling the nursery, but looks more like my grandmother's attic of treasures (read: crap).
Starting this week, the email bulletins I receive every day have taken on a different tone. Up until now these emails were full of "what your baby is doing today," "what stupid crap pregnant women are usually complaining about at this point" and "here's another superfluous, unnecessary item we're going to insist you own."
This week's emails were all about "RED ALERT: How to know you're about to go into labor."
That grabbed my attention.
I eagerly devoured these emails and discovered I am exhibiting approximately 546 of the 547 symptoms proven (read: in one person somewhere in time) to indicate labor is most assuredly (read: sort of, could be, might be, but probably isn't) imminent.
When you're in the homestretch of pregnancy you begin to grasp at the straws allowing you to believe that this will indeed end soon and sushi, Bloody Marys and turkey sandwiches will soon be back in your life.
So I convinced myself I was most definitely going to go into labor. Yesterday.
Upon coming to this conclusion, I ran into the shower to make myself (ahem) more presentable for labor. After an hour of shaving, trimming, bending in ways most unflattering, scrubbing and general soaping of everything, I emerged a new woman.
Because when one thinks they're about to go into labor, grooming should always be priority number 1.
Not putting together a bag of things to bring to the hospital. Not ordering crib bedding for the child to sleep on. Not vacuuming or cleaning the house covered in a fine film of dust and dog hair.
Nope. Grooming an area that will most assuredly be blown to smithereens and soon resemble a war zone. THAT is priority number 1.
[Editor's note: I am still sitting at home with zero indication that I will go into labor in the near future. I am, in fact, quite aware I have just ensured I won't go into labor until late August.]
Naturally, everything is in a state of complete disarray here and nothing is anywhere near to where it should be. But this isn't another post about all the stuff left to do. You're all pretty aware that The Bean will be living in a dog crate set up in the middle of the room we're calling the nursery, but looks more like my grandmother's attic of treasures (read: crap).
Starting this week, the email bulletins I receive every day have taken on a different tone. Up until now these emails were full of "what your baby is doing today," "what stupid crap pregnant women are usually complaining about at this point" and "here's another superfluous, unnecessary item we're going to insist you own."
This week's emails were all about "RED ALERT: How to know you're about to go into labor."
That grabbed my attention.
I eagerly devoured these emails and discovered I am exhibiting approximately 546 of the 547 symptoms proven (read: in one person somewhere in time) to indicate labor is most assuredly (read: sort of, could be, might be, but probably isn't) imminent.
When you're in the homestretch of pregnancy you begin to grasp at the straws allowing you to believe that this will indeed end soon and sushi, Bloody Marys and turkey sandwiches will soon be back in your life.
So I convinced myself I was most definitely going to go into labor. Yesterday.
Upon coming to this conclusion, I ran into the shower to make myself (ahem) more presentable for labor. After an hour of shaving, trimming, bending in ways most unflattering, scrubbing and general soaping of everything, I emerged a new woman.
Because when one thinks they're about to go into labor, grooming should always be priority number 1.
Not putting together a bag of things to bring to the hospital. Not ordering crib bedding for the child to sleep on. Not vacuuming or cleaning the house covered in a fine film of dust and dog hair.
Nope. Grooming an area that will most assuredly be blown to smithereens and soon resemble a war zone. THAT is priority number 1.
[Editor's note: I am still sitting at home with zero indication that I will go into labor in the near future. I am, in fact, quite aware I have just ensured I won't go into labor until late August.]
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Mechanics
So, here I am today (sans makeup and any sort of hair styling--don't judge, you're lucky I got out of my pajamas):
Yes, I believe I have officially set the world record for largest boobs in the history of ever.
I am 36 weeks and some odd days into this pregnancy which means I am days away from being considered full-term. Good thing that's not a wildly horrifying and fear-inducing thought and doesn't set off the crazy monsters who live in my head.
So, I'm just a touch pregnant.
For the most part, there are pretty simple workarounds for dealing with the enormous growths taking over my (or what used to be my) body. Need to put on shoes? Easy enough, if you sit down and swing your legs up to the side. Drop something on the floor? No worries, it can live there until the baby is born.
But there is one activity which I MUST do every week and the workaround leaves a lot to be desired. So I welcome all thoughts and suggestions.
Each and every doctor's appointment from the onset of this pregnancy includes peeing in a cup.
Which is no problem when you don't have an unmovable mass of squirmy child sitting on your lap.
Figure 1:
But that's no longer the case. Now my arms no longer can make the trip to collect this weekly specimen using the usual path.
Figure 2:
Not a big problem because you can just go in from the side. Except. Well, it's a little difficult to see what's going on down below these days. I want you to go to the bathroom and close your eyes and attempt to pee into a Dixie cup.
How's that cup-holding hand doing?
Figure 3:
So, you have to get creative on how to make this all work. And can I tell you, that creative + pregnancy does not equal pretty?
Figure 4:
I'm turning to you interwebs. How do we perform this feat without (1) ending up with pee hands, (2) needing to perform advanced yoga moves, or (3) endangering myself or The Bean?
Yes, I believe I have officially set the world record for largest boobs in the history of ever.
I am 36 weeks and some odd days into this pregnancy which means I am days away from being considered full-term. Good thing that's not a wildly horrifying and fear-inducing thought and doesn't set off the crazy monsters who live in my head.
So, I'm just a touch pregnant.
For the most part, there are pretty simple workarounds for dealing with the enormous growths taking over my (or what used to be my) body. Need to put on shoes? Easy enough, if you sit down and swing your legs up to the side. Drop something on the floor? No worries, it can live there until the baby is born.
But there is one activity which I MUST do every week and the workaround leaves a lot to be desired. So I welcome all thoughts and suggestions.
Each and every doctor's appointment from the onset of this pregnancy includes peeing in a cup.
Which is no problem when you don't have an unmovable mass of squirmy child sitting on your lap.
Figure 1:
But that's no longer the case. Now my arms no longer can make the trip to collect this weekly specimen using the usual path.
Figure 2:
Not a big problem because you can just go in from the side. Except. Well, it's a little difficult to see what's going on down below these days. I want you to go to the bathroom and close your eyes and attempt to pee into a Dixie cup.
How's that cup-holding hand doing?
Figure 3:
So, you have to get creative on how to make this all work. And can I tell you, that creative + pregnancy does not equal pretty?
Figure 4:
I'm turning to you interwebs. How do we perform this feat without (1) ending up with pee hands, (2) needing to perform advanced yoga moves, or (3) endangering myself or The Bean?
Monday, June 6, 2011
Sugar Rush
I like to think of myself as a pretty mellow mother-to-be.
No big worries, no anxiety meltdowns, no massive fears. Just bopping along this whole pregnancy road and waiting for the next stage.
But, like any human, I am not immune to the occasional passing thought of "what if I somehow screwed all this up."
Every morning for the past two months or so, I've been having hot chocolate while Michael enjoys his coffee.
A delicious treat to enjoy and set the day off right, you might be thinking to yourself.
And you'd be wrong.
It's my sneaky way to give The Bean a sugar rush first thing in the morning so she starts kicking me and I can rest assured I did not somehow sleep on my stomach all night long and kill her while I slept.
No big worries, no anxiety meltdowns, no massive fears. Just bopping along this whole pregnancy road and waiting for the next stage.
But, like any human, I am not immune to the occasional passing thought of "what if I somehow screwed all this up."
Every morning for the past two months or so, I've been having hot chocolate while Michael enjoys his coffee.
A delicious treat to enjoy and set the day off right, you might be thinking to yourself.
And you'd be wrong.
It's my sneaky way to give The Bean a sugar rush first thing in the morning so she starts kicking me and I can rest assured I did not somehow sleep on my stomach all night long and kill her while I slept.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Conversations in Pregnancy Land
Jen: Babe, I really need you to empty out the nursery of all the crap we've piled up in there. I'm starting to get itchy about finishing the room.
Michael: We have plenty of time. Don't worry.
Jen: Plenty of time??? We're like 4-5 weeks out from having a baby in the house with us and we still need to paint the ceiling, get furniture and steam the carpets.
Michael: You don't need all that stuff done before the baby gets here. She'll spend time in our room and if we had to, we could finish up the room after she's born. Just relax.
In fact, it's probably better to just wait. I mean, in 5 weeks you'll be able to do it yourself.
Jen: ...
Michael: We have plenty of time. Don't worry.
Jen: Plenty of time??? We're like 4-5 weeks out from having a baby in the house with us and we still need to paint the ceiling, get furniture and steam the carpets.
Michael: You don't need all that stuff done before the baby gets here. She'll spend time in our room and if we had to, we could finish up the room after she's born. Just relax.
In fact, it's probably better to just wait. I mean, in 5 weeks you'll be able to do it yourself.
Jen: ...
Monday, May 23, 2011
Too Busy to Post...
...as my time is spent watching, in horror, the "knot" of my belly button being evicted from its once safe home deep within my abdomen.
I'm ready to have my body back now.
Next up: How my baby shower kicks your baby shower's butt.
I'm ready to have my body back now.
Next up: How my baby shower kicks your baby shower's butt.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Misdirection
Yesterday morning Michael stunned me with this gem:
"You should be proud of yourself babe. You look great. You're a thin pregnant woman and didn't balloon into a whale."
Since I've been obsessive about not gaining too much weight during this pregnancy (which is a battle I'm losing), this was just about the nicest thing in the world anyone has ever said to me.
So naturally, I went out for lunch and got a 7" chicken sausage hot dog (no nitrates, locally-sourced chicken), large fries--with cheese--and a root beer. And because that wasn't enough I snarfled down some chocolate ice cream afterwards for good measure.
And this is why no one can compliment me.
"You should be proud of yourself babe. You look great. You're a thin pregnant woman and didn't balloon into a whale."
Since I've been obsessive about not gaining too much weight during this pregnancy (which is a battle I'm losing), this was just about the nicest thing in the world anyone has ever said to me.
So naturally, I went out for lunch and got a 7" chicken sausage hot dog (no nitrates, locally-sourced chicken), large fries--with cheese--and a root beer. And because that wasn't enough I snarfled down some chocolate ice cream afterwards for good measure.
And this is why no one can compliment me.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Fear and Loathing in Pregnancy Land
Most women at this stage in their pregnancy are fretting about what kind of mother they'll be, the pains of labor or how they'll make it through the day-to-day of caring for a new person.
Naturally, I can't be bothered with such plebeian concerns.
I have REAL fears. REAL concerns. Based on years and years of crazy I have honed to a perfect point of insanity.
The Baby Shower
Being the center of attention makes me break out in a sweat. A nasty, dripping, uncontrollable sweat that no amount of deodorant can prevent. This makes total sense when you consider I opted, on purpose, to get my undergraduate degree in theater. See. Totally makes sense--for a person with a cruel intent on punishing herself for no good reason.
My girlfriends (to my understanding) are making the shower as painless a possible. And while I don't doubt them for a minute, I'm still freaking. Because I know in the near future I will be forced to be the center of attention. And that thought is about as petrifying as watching someone playing with a balloon. (This may or may not be anotherirrational totally understandable fear. I mean, you just don't know when that balloon is going to pop. Oh, it's going to pop...but when??? The anticipation is nauseatingly nerve-wracking.)
Talking to People on the Phone
There are exactly 4 people in the world who I talk to on the phone for enjoyment purposes.
I am a results-oriented personality, so I consider talking for the sake of talking a waste of time. If you want to get together, email and let's plan something. I don't need to chit chat before we get together to chit chat. In fact, the phone pre-chit chat is detrimental since I only have so much to say and I'll likely use it all up during the phone call and then be left staring vacantly at you when we meet up.
So, the inevitable slew of phone calls once The Bean makes her entrance is already making me itchy.
Ready? Here's the script: "Yep, she's here. It's great. Labor hurt, but it was all worthwhile. Yep, I'm tired. No, she's not really doing anything other than eating, sleeping and pooping. That's about it......so......do you think the NFL will come to an agreement soon?"
The Unexpected Visitors
Worse than the phone calls are the unexpected visitors; who, from my understanding, show up a lot right after the baby expulsion.
I think it's totally swell that you don't care whether or not I've showered or put on a new shirt in four days, but I CARE. So now I stink AND have to make polite conversation. Two of my least favorite things at once.
Having to Socialize with Breeders Only
I'm not mommy club material. Unlike many moms-to-be, I am well-prepared for the solitary lifestyle most new mothers are shocked and depressed with facing. I work from home, so I'm already quite familiar with being home all day, every day with no adult interaction.
I have no desire to join a mommy club and talk about the different color poop my child makes, complain about not being my pre-pregnancy weight or bitching about my husband's unwillingness to meet my every passing, irrational fancy.
The only reason to join a mommy club would be to showcase how much more awesome The Bean is than every other child. Ever. (Except yours) But that would just be joining for all the wrong reasons.
The thing is, non-breeders are reluctant to hang out with you once you are sporting the latest in baby accessories.
So yeah...episiotomy, a non-latching baby, finding the time to sleep...all drops in the bucket when you compare it to the fear of hearing the phone ring.
Naturally, I can't be bothered with such plebeian concerns.
I have REAL fears. REAL concerns. Based on years and years of crazy I have honed to a perfect point of insanity.
The Baby Shower
Being the center of attention makes me break out in a sweat. A nasty, dripping, uncontrollable sweat that no amount of deodorant can prevent. This makes total sense when you consider I opted, on purpose, to get my undergraduate degree in theater. See. Totally makes sense--for a person with a cruel intent on punishing herself for no good reason.
My girlfriends (to my understanding) are making the shower as painless a possible. And while I don't doubt them for a minute, I'm still freaking. Because I know in the near future I will be forced to be the center of attention. And that thought is about as petrifying as watching someone playing with a balloon. (This may or may not be another
Talking to People on the Phone
There are exactly 4 people in the world who I talk to on the phone for enjoyment purposes.
I am a results-oriented personality, so I consider talking for the sake of talking a waste of time. If you want to get together, email and let's plan something. I don't need to chit chat before we get together to chit chat. In fact, the phone pre-chit chat is detrimental since I only have so much to say and I'll likely use it all up during the phone call and then be left staring vacantly at you when we meet up.
So, the inevitable slew of phone calls once The Bean makes her entrance is already making me itchy.
Ready? Here's the script: "Yep, she's here. It's great. Labor hurt, but it was all worthwhile. Yep, I'm tired. No, she's not really doing anything other than eating, sleeping and pooping. That's about it......so......do you think the NFL will come to an agreement soon?"
The Unexpected Visitors
Worse than the phone calls are the unexpected visitors; who, from my understanding, show up a lot right after the baby expulsion.
I think it's totally swell that you don't care whether or not I've showered or put on a new shirt in four days, but I CARE. So now I stink AND have to make polite conversation. Two of my least favorite things at once.
Having to Socialize with Breeders Only
I'm not mommy club material. Unlike many moms-to-be, I am well-prepared for the solitary lifestyle most new mothers are shocked and depressed with facing. I work from home, so I'm already quite familiar with being home all day, every day with no adult interaction.
I have no desire to join a mommy club and talk about the different color poop my child makes, complain about not being my pre-pregnancy weight or bitching about my husband's unwillingness to meet my every passing, irrational fancy.
The only reason to join a mommy club would be to showcase how much more awesome The Bean is than every other child. Ever. (Except yours) But that would just be joining for all the wrong reasons.
The thing is, non-breeders are reluctant to hang out with you once you are sporting the latest in baby accessories.
So yeah...episiotomy, a non-latching baby, finding the time to sleep...all drops in the bucket when you compare it to the fear of hearing the phone ring.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Tuesday Trivia
Let's play a game called, Guess Who Did the Food Shopping This Week.
This week's hint is a picture clue.
Michael and I went to Whole Foods and this is what we came home with:
This week's hint is a picture clue.
Michael and I went to Whole Foods and this is what we came home with:
Counterclockwise from top-left: Sea Salt Caramel gelato, Tahitian Vanilla Bean, Double Dark Chocolate, Toasted Almond and Red Raspberry sorbet.
Don't worry, we bought a few other items as well. Heavy whipping cream, whole milk and eggs to make our own home-made ice cream too.
Winners earn my undying love and adoration. Losers will have to hang their head in shame for 3 whole seconds.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Things Pregnant Women Should TOTALLY Complain About
This weekend, I vented my frustrations about some of the idiotic things pregnant women seem to complain about constantly.
But here's the catch. There are a multitude of things brought on by pregnancy that you don't hear Boo about--and they really suck.
My Hips Don't Lie
My hips are going through a particularly nasty, painful divorce. After 33 years of togetherness, irreconcilable differences have made my hips part ways. Apparently they have gotten restraining orders and they are required to stay 100 feet away from each other.
The rub is, they are still contained within my skin.
As The Bean settles in for her final weeks of womb vacation, her weight is pushing my hips apart so I can shoot her out of my hoo-ha like a cannonball. This means: (a) I can stay in one position for roughly 30 minutes before it becomes wildly uncomfortable--this includes sleeping positions, (b) it feels like I've been riding a bicycle for 400 straight hours--on an unpadded seat, and (c) my walking gait more closely resembles a duck's than a human's.
Reorganization
I'm not sure what I thought was going to happen to all of my internal organs and bits and bobs when there was something the size of a small pumpkin taking up residence inside me. Would they just shrink? Perhaps they take a well-deserved vacation. Or maybe they just effortlessly scoot to an unoccupied spot in my body and get a little cozier with some of the organs they haven't visited in awhile.
I'm now fairly certain none of those things happened. Everything stubbornly stayed put and has become the playground for The Bean.
It's hard to be angry with a person who doesn't realize your right ovary is not a punching bag or that kicking another person in the diaphragm for hours on end is annoying bordering on grounds for spree killings. Actually, it's pretty easy to be angry with them, but the knowledge of my ability to embarrass that same person when they hit 13 years old makes the pain more bearable.
The World's Most Ineffective Camel
No joke, I go through 3 liters of club soda a day (I have the Soda Stream and I highly recommend it to anyone who loves the fizzy water). It's like I just finished my 20-year African desert hike and every last drop of water on the planet might help alleviate some of the thirst.
Except then I have to pee.
Like a lot.
Except when you go to the restroom to alleviate yourself, nothing happens.
Like at all.
Because someone is sitting on some of your internal plumbing and it closely resembles what happens when you accidentally park your car on top of the garden hose and then try to water your plants.
This goes on every 5 minutes all day long. It's a real treat.
So there's those things.
But here's the catch. There are a multitude of things brought on by pregnancy that you don't hear Boo about--and they really suck.
My Hips Don't Lie
My hips are going through a particularly nasty, painful divorce. After 33 years of togetherness, irreconcilable differences have made my hips part ways. Apparently they have gotten restraining orders and they are required to stay 100 feet away from each other.
The rub is, they are still contained within my skin.
As The Bean settles in for her final weeks of womb vacation, her weight is pushing my hips apart so I can shoot her out of my hoo-ha like a cannonball. This means: (a) I can stay in one position for roughly 30 minutes before it becomes wildly uncomfortable--this includes sleeping positions, (b) it feels like I've been riding a bicycle for 400 straight hours--on an unpadded seat, and (c) my walking gait more closely resembles a duck's than a human's.
Reorganization
I'm not sure what I thought was going to happen to all of my internal organs and bits and bobs when there was something the size of a small pumpkin taking up residence inside me. Would they just shrink? Perhaps they take a well-deserved vacation. Or maybe they just effortlessly scoot to an unoccupied spot in my body and get a little cozier with some of the organs they haven't visited in awhile.
I'm now fairly certain none of those things happened. Everything stubbornly stayed put and has become the playground for The Bean.
It's hard to be angry with a person who doesn't realize your right ovary is not a punching bag or that kicking another person in the diaphragm for hours on end is annoying bordering on grounds for spree killings. Actually, it's pretty easy to be angry with them, but the knowledge of my ability to embarrass that same person when they hit 13 years old makes the pain more bearable.
The World's Most Ineffective Camel
No joke, I go through 3 liters of club soda a day (I have the Soda Stream and I highly recommend it to anyone who loves the fizzy water). It's like I just finished my 20-year African desert hike and every last drop of water on the planet might help alleviate some of the thirst.
Except then I have to pee.
Like a lot.
Except when you go to the restroom to alleviate yourself, nothing happens.
Like at all.
Because someone is sitting on some of your internal plumbing and it closely resembles what happens when you accidentally park your car on top of the garden hose and then try to water your plants.
This goes on every 5 minutes all day long. It's a real treat.
So there's those things.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
What Pregnant Women Complain About
via: cSlacker.comI'm going to go ahead and break the first rule of Pregnancy Fight Club.
There seems to be a lot of complaining accompanying this whole pregnancy experience and I'm not exactly sure I get it. For the most part, pregnancy is a walk in the park (We pause this post for an editor's hedging: I'm talking about normal pregnancies with no complications. And no, being pregnant is not a complication.)--albeit a very long, sometimes slightly inconvenient 10-month walk.
There are a slew of complaints I hear about consistently making me want to slap pregnant women. If you thought being pregnant would be the same as being unpregnant, find yourself a toaster oven and a full bath. You'll love the pretty lights you see.
Things Pregnant Women Need to Shut Up About Already
"That person called me 'Big,' 'Small,' '6 months pregnant when I'm clearly only 21 weeks'
This is going to come as a surprise to most pregnant women, but the day you found out you were pregnant, the world did not stop to go out and read up on pregnancy. No one cares that pregnancies last 40 weeks--and they certainly don't care what week you are in.
People want to know 2 things: what day are you due and what day are you due.
Everything else is extraneous information making them do math and most people aren't that good at math. So give the world a break and when they ask you how far along you are just say, "I'm due in July--only 3 months to go!"
Shock #2: While the world was spending all that time not looking up pregnancies week by week, they also were busy not giving a damn about how much your uterus and womb expands throughout pregnancy.
So when someone says you look big or small for how far along you are, they are saying it just to carry on the conversation (unless it's your doctor. Then you might want to listen up and possibly lay off the ice cream. Yes, I'm looking in the mirror as I type this.). So give them a pass.
I had two cashiers the other day tell me I looked 4 months pregnant. I wanted to jump over the conveyor belt and kiss them with tongue. My mother told me I was looking big. I took this to mean definitively that The Bean was coming early and I would get to be unpregnant sooner. Win-Win.
People Keep Touching My Belly
I'm going to go out on a limb and say the people making this complaint are the same people who (a) are always talking about their pregnancy, "It IS great the unemployment rate is dropping. That means this baby that I'm pregnant with will have a better chance at finding a job 16 years from now." (b) are wearing the cute little maternity clothes showcasing their bump like a ship beacon in the fog, and (c) don't walk around with this face on:
I don't have anyone touching my belly who I don't want to. In great thanks to that look being etched on my face at most times.
I Can't Believe How Much Weight I'm Gaining
I have two things to say: (a) You're pregnant. If you didn't think you were going to gain weight you're an idiot and should do us all a favor and play in traffic. (b) If you (or your doctor) think you are gaining too much weight, eat right.
Pregnancy is not the 'Get Out of Jail Free' card to go eat at Shoney's Buffet 24/7. 300 extra calories, kids. That's like an apple and a glass of milk. If you're starving, it's probably because you ate something crappy that doesn't fill you up. Go eat a cucumber.
All that said, I'm fanatical and obsess about my weight. Because I'm allowed. I got permission from the Pregnancy President. Which means I can go eat out constantly, enjoy fried foods and desserts and then be completely stunned when the scale says I've gained 10 pounds in three weeks.
Next Post: Things Pregnant Women Should TOTALLY Complain About
There seems to be a lot of complaining accompanying this whole pregnancy experience and I'm not exactly sure I get it. For the most part, pregnancy is a walk in the park (We pause this post for an editor's hedging: I'm talking about normal pregnancies with no complications. And no, being pregnant is not a complication.)--albeit a very long, sometimes slightly inconvenient 10-month walk.
There are a slew of complaints I hear about consistently making me want to slap pregnant women. If you thought being pregnant would be the same as being unpregnant, find yourself a toaster oven and a full bath. You'll love the pretty lights you see.
Things Pregnant Women Need to Shut Up About Already
"That person called me 'Big,' 'Small,' '6 months pregnant when I'm clearly only 21 weeks'
This is going to come as a surprise to most pregnant women, but the day you found out you were pregnant, the world did not stop to go out and read up on pregnancy. No one cares that pregnancies last 40 weeks--and they certainly don't care what week you are in.
People want to know 2 things: what day are you due and what day are you due.
Everything else is extraneous information making them do math and most people aren't that good at math. So give the world a break and when they ask you how far along you are just say, "I'm due in July--only 3 months to go!"
Shock #2: While the world was spending all that time not looking up pregnancies week by week, they also were busy not giving a damn about how much your uterus and womb expands throughout pregnancy.
So when someone says you look big or small for how far along you are, they are saying it just to carry on the conversation (unless it's your doctor. Then you might want to listen up and possibly lay off the ice cream. Yes, I'm looking in the mirror as I type this.). So give them a pass.
I had two cashiers the other day tell me I looked 4 months pregnant. I wanted to jump over the conveyor belt and kiss them with tongue. My mother told me I was looking big. I took this to mean definitively that The Bean was coming early and I would get to be unpregnant sooner. Win-Win.
People Keep Touching My Belly
I'm going to go out on a limb and say the people making this complaint are the same people who (a) are always talking about their pregnancy, "It IS great the unemployment rate is dropping. That means this baby that I'm pregnant with will have a better chance at finding a job 16 years from now." (b) are wearing the cute little maternity clothes showcasing their bump like a ship beacon in the fog, and (c) don't walk around with this face on:
I don't have anyone touching my belly who I don't want to. In great thanks to that look being etched on my face at most times.
I Can't Believe How Much Weight I'm Gaining
I have two things to say: (a) You're pregnant. If you didn't think you were going to gain weight you're an idiot and should do us all a favor and play in traffic. (b) If you (or your doctor) think you are gaining too much weight, eat right.
Pregnancy is not the 'Get Out of Jail Free' card to go eat at Shoney's Buffet 24/7. 300 extra calories, kids. That's like an apple and a glass of milk. If you're starving, it's probably because you ate something crappy that doesn't fill you up. Go eat a cucumber.
All that said, I'm fanatical and obsess about my weight. Because I'm allowed. I got permission from the Pregnancy President. Which means I can go eat out constantly, enjoy fried foods and desserts and then be completely stunned when the scale says I've gained 10 pounds in three weeks.
Next Post: Things Pregnant Women Should TOTALLY Complain About
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