February102014

Unapologetic Pervert: A Pro-literacy Blog Post

image

   

   As I have mentioned in previous blog posts, I was a major dork in middle school. Instead of having friends, I spent my days carrying my cat, Linus around like a baby (whether he wanted to or not). Or dancing and singing in my room to the Spice Girls, wearing just pants and a bra like Scary Spice (even though we can all agree that Posh was the hot one, and Sporty was the best singer). Or I spent my days reading. I loved to read, and I still do. I read so much in middle school, that I had exhausted all of the decent books in the young adult section and had to move on to adult novels. The first grownup book that I read was a three-in-one book by Piers Anthony containing the first three books in his Xanth series, that I finished in about two and a half weeks. By the time I was in high school, I had read 21 of his books. And that was just by that author. 

   Around the time I turned 13, I started reading Stephen King Novels, as well. Which, because of their disturbing content, were in no way ever meant to be read by tiny, bespectacled, blonde haired, blue eyed, middle school-aged girls. Furthermore, these books contained some pretty freaking raunchy sex scenes in them. Needless to say, this was super awesome and I’ll tell you why; Reading sexy stuff in books when you’re a 13 year old girl, is the equivalent of finding a random pornographic picture blowing in the wind, while riding your bike to your friend’s house, for a 13 year old boy. It’s like winning the boner lottery, only better! It’s better because, unlike a random piece of stray porn that can be found by your parents if not properly hidden, nobody’s going to accidentally stumble upon the filth written in the middle of a 400 page novel. This is how being smart and dorky pays off! To the lay person, it would appear that I was some adorable, well behaved dork, catching up on her reading homework. When in fact, I was reading a disturbingly detailed description of what grownups do in the bath together (It) or the contents of a teen-aged serial killer’s wet dream (Apt Pupil). And now that everyone is jumping on the Fifty Shades of Grey bandwagon, I’m over here thinking “Been there, done that”. I literally have over a decade of filthy literature under my belt already. In retrospect, this may have contributed to me growing up to be the unapologetic pervert I am today. But I’m okay with that. 

   So, I guess not everything about being freaking awkward is all that bad. And in a way, some might view this blog post as being pro-literacy. In fact, I think I might start my own pro-reading campaign. The slogan will be something along the lines of “Reading: If you’re doing it right, it will give you a boner.” I have a feeling it will be a roaring success with today’s youth.

November222013

   A few days ago, the kids slept on the couch because they’re all sick. I came downstairs in the morning and they all looked like they were feeling better. I asked Bailey how she was feeling and she said “Last night I puked.” Uh-oh… “Where did you puke?” I asked, expecting to have to clean up a mess. “In the toilet.” Thank God. “Well, why didn’t you tell me right after it happened?” To which she replied “Because you were sleeping.” In that moment I felt like I was doing something right as a parent. I’ve raised my kids to be independent little problem solvers who can handle things on their own. Kids who know that I have trouble sleeping and care about me so much that they don’t want to disturb me unless absolutely necessary. But then I remembered that I have a roll of Bubble Tape sitting on my bedside table because last Saturday, after two weeks of dealing with horrible vertigo and no sleep, that same thoughtful, independent Bailey kid came sneaking into my room at the ass-crack of dawn to ask if she could have gum for breakfast. I can’t remember exactly what I said to her, but it was something along the lines of “Blah blah blah… NOOO!!! Of course not!!! Blah blah blah… What are you thinking??? Blah blah blah… Why are you doing this to me?? Blah blah blah… It’s MY gum now!!!”

   In conclusion, sometimes my kids rock and they make me so proud. And other times they are total assholes and they make me want to punch myself in the face repeatedly. After all, I am convinced that Bailey was put on this Earth with the sole purpose of keeping me on my toes and making me constantly question everything I think I know about parenting. You just never know what to expect with that one. 

September142013

Classic Bailey Quotes

Bailey is my second child. She’s blonde and has beautiful periwinkle eyes and a squished little Shrek-baby nose that I love to pinch. Also, she totally sucks. Here are pictures of her from this summer. Knowing that getting her to let me take a good picture would be like trying to bathe a cat, I told her she can do one silly one, but then I want a serious picture. This is what I get:

The silly one…

image

And the serious one…

image

     Bailey was born with a bad attitude. She’s stubborn, independent, and painfully shy. On top of all that, she’s afraid of literally every living creature and anything that moves and/or makes noise, and she hasn’t voluntarily eaten anything since she was six months old. Fortunately for me, God has kept me from tapping into my animal instincts to eat her shortly after she was born, by making her the funniest person I have ever met. Bailey’s mind works on a totally different wavelength than my other kids. She says the most bizarre things, and I have no idea where she comes up with this stuff. Over the years I have posted some of her best quotes on Facebook, and it turns out that everyone else finds her just as entertaining as I do. So here are some of Bailey’s greatest hits, with pictures of her at roughly the age she was when she said them. 

2010…

image

Me- “I haven’t seen that cat around for a while.”

Bailey- “Maybe it ate a poison sea urchin and died.” 

image

Bailey’s New Years resolution when she was three was to “do karate better.”

image

"Tag your it! Now tag my it, Kylie! Kylie! Tag my it!! Tag MY it!!!"

 

Apparently I needed to explain the difference between “Tag, you’re it”, and “Tag your it.”

 

 

image

"Dora has red eyes because she’s mad. She’s mad because she has moles." ~ Bailey, while coloring in her Dora coloring book.

 

We interrupt this blog post for a brief video from Bailey…

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=1402850754810&l=4982206781709264200

 

 

image

"My poops are coming out like Nem-Nems (M&Ms)."

 

 

image

"Ava wants a drink of your boob."

image

"When I was in my room, Kylie took my toy and I pushed her and I say ‘dammit’."

 

 

Another Brief video from Bailey…

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=1708297870797&l=6182137696716229621

 

 

2011…

image

Yesterday Bailey asked me if she could put on some deodorant and I said that would be fine. So she puts deodorant under one arm and then under the other arm and then (as if it were totally normal) applies deodorant under her chin and down her neck. I said “I don’t think you’re supposed to put it on your neck.” and she said “That’s how I like to.” 

This was on the heels of her telling me (as if after lots of self reflection, she’s had some sort of epiphany) “I think… I’m gangster.”

 

 

image

"Ouch!! My poop feels like it’s shaped like a sailboat."

image

Bailey- “When I grow up I want to have 2 girls and 2 boys. The girl’s names are Kenna and Malasha. And the boys are Derek-Eric aaand…”
Me- “Your boys are Derek and Eric?”
Bailey- “No, that’s one boys name.”
Me- “What’s the other boy’s name?’
Bailey- “Hmmm… I’ll have to think about it.”

 

 

image

I had just given Bailey her 3rd stern talkin’ to of the night and sent her back to bed. When she got up stairs, I heard Kylie say, with great concern “What happened?” To which Bailey replied “She put lemon juice in my eyes.”

 

 

image

"Did you know Jack Black is real?" 

image

"Ava says she doesn’t really like your glasses."

 

 

Video break! 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=1453625464146&l=5610797727874656645

 

 

2012…

image

Bailey- “Is that the president?”
Me- “No. That’s the Quaker Oats guy.”

 

 

image

"Can I wear my shirt like this to school so it looks like I got chased by snakes and squirrels?"

 

 

image

Me- “How was school today?”
Bailey- “Horrible!! We just had to watch a play and it took for an hour and we didn’t even get a snack! I’m never going to speak of it!!” 

 

 

 

image

"I’m going to wear this shirt to school tomorrow even though it’s ugly. It’s ok because I sit alone." 

Later Bailey walks up to me with her underwear hiked up above her belly and asks “Does this make me look younger?”

 

 

 

image

Bailey was sitting at the kitchen table begrudgingly eating her mac n’ cheese when she said “I’m outta here.. I’m gonna go live in a volcano.”

 

 

image

"I think I’m the only kid in this childhood."

 

 

image

"Abracadabra! Alakazam! Fresno!"

 

 

image

"Mock my words, I will surrender you!!"

 

 

image

Me- “You have your daddy’s hair. His hair is curly, too. You just can’t tell because it’s short.”
Bailey- “Just like Obama. Is Obama his uncle?”

 

 

image

"I don’t want poop-hands. That’s why I don’t touch bugs."

 

 

image

Bailey came downstairs so I could check to make sure her butt is clean. She bent over in front of me and she had a heart with an arrow going through it drawn in ballpoint pen on her butt cheek. So I asked the obvious question “Why do you have a heart with an arrow going through it drawn on your butt?” and her answer was “Kylie told me not to tell you!!!” and then she ran off.

 

 

image

Bailey’s sitting at the dinner table poking at her green beans. 

Bailey- “Why can’t I just skip eating my green beans?”
Me- “Why do you think?” 
Bailey- “Because they’re magic?” 
Me- “What? No. Because they’re good for you.”

 

 

image

"My most favorite kind of spaghetti is the Chinese spaghetti made by the Chinese people."

 

 

image

Bailey wanted to do “homework” while Kylie does her reading so I’m having her write the letters of the alphabet and then a picture of something that starts with each letter. For D she drew a duck but then said it didn’t look like a duck. She said “It looks like a person in a duck costume.” and it really did! Then for the letter G I asked her to pick something that starts with the “Guh” sound she said “Uhhh… Gouse?” Then I said “what the hell is a gouse?” and without missing a beat, she said “It’s a really humongous mouse that’s half dinosaur.”

 

 

image

I decided to have Bailey name the stray cats that live on our street in hopes that it might help her get over her fear of cats. She named the black and white one Shel, the orange one is Crown and the white one with gray ears is Floppy on account that he has really big balls. I’m so proud.

 

 

image

6:40 am…

Bailey- “Does Daddy have ten dollars?”
Me- “Yes.”
Bailey- “Then he has enough dollars to buy Flex-seal! It covers all the holes.”

 

 

Video!!!

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=1272467495310&l=4754774713466277239

 

 

image

"What if I had a gold tooth? It would be awesome if I had a gold tooth."

 

 

image

"I love Ava more than Steven Tyler."

 

 

image

Bailey- “Our bathroom smells like a butthole.”
Me- “Ok. Do you want cut up bananas in your cereal?”
Bailey- “No. I hate bananas in my cereal. It makes it taste like a butthole.”

 

 

2013…

image

"Everybody looks good with a mustache."

 

 

image

"That’s a vicious stereotype!!"

 

 

image

Me- “So what do you think? You like your new clothes for Basketball Camp?”
Bailey- “No.”
Me- “What don’t you like about them?”
Bailey- “My forehead.”

 

 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=3609531760456&l=8968152153661178533

 

 

image

"I want to watch fat people doing ballet." Bailey, on what she wants to watch on Youtube.

 

 

image

Me- “Are you this weird at school?”
Bailey- “I do nothing at school! I just sit and color and flip patties.”

 

 

image

"I’m Batman, with a capitol ‘AN’!! Whatever ‘a capitol’ means…" 

 

 

image

Bailey- “Can I eat this ketchup packet?”
Me- “No.”
Bailey- “Can I rub it all over me so it looks like I’m covered in blood?”

 

 

image

Bailey hit Ben with her purse earlier and indignantly yelled “I am a married woman!” 

 

 

image

Ben- “You don’t have to eat your rice, but you still have to eat your broccoli.”
Bailey (looking very skeptical - “Did you check with Mommy. Because she never likes your plans.”

 

 

image

"Ava isn’t a human bean yet. She’s just a baby bean. She’s still in her sack. We are all out of our sacks, and Ava is still in her sack because she’s not a human bean."

 

 

image

I sent Bailey to the corner for spitting on Kylie’s food.

Me- “Don’t spit ever again. It’s gross.”
Bailey- “Then how will I brush my teeth?”
Me- “You can spit when you brush your teeth, just don’t spit on people or their food.”
Bailey- “Can I spit on my own food?”

 

 

image

Kylie- “Lick this pickle.”

Bailey- “No! It tastes like my mother’s butt!” 

I will leave you with this final video.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=1135413309041&l=7823001820867401855

August312013

jonahray:

This is a very nice thing….

zenpencils:

BILL WATTERSON ‘A cartoonist’s advice’

(via paulscheer)

August242013

The Worst Place on Earth

     While freshening up my makeup earlier, Ben scooched past me in the bathroom, only to find that we were out of toilet paper. “Ack, now how am I supposed to blow my nose?” He said. To which I replied “That’s what your shirt is for.” You know, as a joke. Because blowing your nose on your shirt would be the grossest thing ever. My comment reminded Ben that earlier, while walking through the Walmart parking lot in Longview, he saw a guy blow a big wad of snot on the ground and then proceed to wipe his nose on his shirt. This story only reaffirms my belief that the Walmart in Longview Washington is the worst place on Earth.   

    A few years back, while shopping at Walmart, I was looking for a place to nurse Bailey. The only place available was the bench right next to the entrance, which is not ideal. I sat down next to a lady comfortably in her early hundreds. I finally got the blanket properly situated so I could have a little bit of privacy (It wasn’t until I had Ava that I mastered discreet public nursing without the blanket. (Unfortunately, my boob to baby head ratio is way off, so it can be really hard to keep these warlocks under control). Basically, this was one of the more awkward breastfeeding experiences I’ve had, not to be outdone by my husband’s friend staring at me as I nursed and then asking me “Do you like that?” (I know! creepy, right?). Despite being elbow to elbow with meemaw, I was trying to avoid eye contact so as not to have to make polite conversation. It didn’t seem to deter her whatsoever. She started asking me about the baby, like if it was a boy or girl. I have noticed that in all my experience with talking to elderly strangers since I’ve had kids, is that they are oblivious to the gender of little children. My kids can be dressed in all pink with pigtails in their hair, and some old man will come up and say “Awww, what a handsome little boy.”

     I was not all that keen on making small talk with Katharine Hepburn’s mom, but it was her attempt to lift the blanket while I was nursing to look at the baby that really irritated me. Who does that?? Will there come a day when I’m so old that I lose all my manners? I hope so. It would be so fun. I would spend my days waiting outside changing rooms so I could ambush unwitting strangers and do the “grab the belt loop and jiggle to see if the pants fit” move that our parents used to do to us as children when we were shopping for school clothes. Gaw, I can’t wait! it sounds like a blast!

     I was so relieved when her son showed up to retrieve her. That is, until I realized that he was mentally slow, and also had no concept of what is and is not acceptable social behavior. Meemaw told her son (Who happened to have a glorious, bleach blonde, Dee Snider pony tail) to take pictures of the cute little babies (At this point Ben had joined us with Kylie in the cart). We both just stood there like a couple of boobs and let a complete stranger take pictures of our kids on his cell phone. We were both taken aback that these two people would think that this was normal. Neither of us had the balls to object. The son told us that he would go home and put the pictures on his computer and print them out and that if he sees us again, we could have them.

 image

     No joke, a few months later, Ben and I were driving through Longview and who do we see riding his bike with his majestic blonde ponytail flowing in the wind? Mentally slow Dee Snider!! (One could debate that regular Dee Snider is also a little bit retarded, but that subject will have to wait for another blog post.) I yelled for Ben to pull over “I want my pictures!!” But that guy has some mad bike skills, so we just kept on driving. 

     As uncomfortable as that situation was, I would much rather deal with the senile and the mentally handicapped, than have to deal with gross older men who should not be allowed in public, like I did on another unfortunate trip to the Longview Walmart. It was freaking late at night and I needed to really quickly grab a few things. The store was all but empty and Ben and I had split up to make things go faster so we could get the hell out of that Godforsaken place. I was all alone on the baking isle looking at different brands of olive oil as if I were trying to decipher which colored wire would defuse the nuke when I cut it, when an older dude comes strolling down from the far end of the aisle. It was just me and him in the long empty aisle. As he gets right up next to where I’m standing, he totally crop dusts me! Seriously?? What in the mother of fuck?? He had a whole aisle, nay, an ENTIRE STORE to fart up, but he chooses the moment he passes me in the aisle to rip ass. What went wrong in his upbringing that would give him the impression that that is ok? And furthermore, how did he make it this far in life without someone kicking his ass? If I could, I would have. I would have taken him by the ear and given him the whoopin’ his parents obviously failed to give him as a child, and then I would tell him to learn some goddamn manners. 

     The moral of the story is: 1) I can be talked into almost anything by the elderly and mentally challenged. 2) Fart up your own house all you want, but teach your children to be respectful of other people in public. And 3) I need to not be poor anymore so I can avoid all Walmarts for the rest of my life. 

July52013

My First Kiss

   This will be a short story, because it was with my husband, Ben, of course….. Just kidding. 

   In middle school I was horrifically unpopular. Middle school-aged kids are the fucking worst. They are so mean. I tried to fit in, but the harder I tried, the more I was picked on. Which I now see was because I tried WAY too hard. Nowadays, I get along great with pretty much all people. But when you’re in middle school, no one cares if you’re witty or if you’re a virtual encyclopedia of useless pop culture knowledge. All they care about is if you have new Adidas, Jnco’s and a huge, white binder. The kind with the clear plastic that you can slip pictures of Usher that you ripped out of Tiger Beat into. My mom didn’t see why I needed one of those like EVERY-FUCKING-ONE ELSE, and bought me a 99 cent blue floppy binder-ish thingy that was the bane of my existence. I carried that awful thing all year with papers overflowing and spewing out the sides. Thankfully I talked her into getting me a fancy, white binder like everyone else for eighth grade, but instead of pictures of Usher, I had pictures of the oldest kid from Home Improvement. You know, the one no one thought was cool because he was totally overshadowed by JTT? Yeah, that guy. Thankfully this whore-bitch on the school bus did me a huge favor and pulled the picture out of my binder and threw it out the window when I wasn’t looking. I was pretty devastated, and to this day I am still so pissed about that. 

   Factoring in that, for fear of hurting peoples feelings, I would accept hand-me-downs from anyone (even my grandma [no, I’m not joking]) and the fact that with puberty came not only boobies, but also my strange velociraptor posture (boobs out, butt out, arms curled up safely at my sides), I was doomed. And as if I wasn’t doing a good enough job of being freaking awkward on my own, I am convinced that my mom was deliberately sabotaging my efforts at being cool, as well. She wouldn’t let me wear dark red lipstick like Gwen Stefani because, in her opinion, I was too pale. And when I asked if I could wear my hair in a loopy bun with the two strips of hair hanging on either side of my face like everyone else my age, she said “Is it supposed to be so messy? I don’t think so. But I’ll do your hair like mine, if you want?” If I am incapable of telling my grandma that I don’t want her hand-me-down shoes because the teacher has the same ones in red, you can be sure as shit that I couldn’t say no to my mom, for fear that she would be offended. It was only one day of mom hair. That’s not so bad, right? So I reluctantly agreed to let my mom put my hair in an Elaine from Seinfeld style pouf with a big, ugly barrette to complete the look. Imagine my horror when I showed up at school the next day looking like a home-school reject, only to discover it was picture day! I got to relive that amazingly humiliating day every time I looked at my student body card that year. Ahhh, memories. 

   Because of the constant bullying that only got worse as time went on, and a series of problems at home that even I can’t put a positive enough spin on to make it funny, I ended up dropping out of school in the eighth grade. Fast forwarding past all the sad and painful stuff, I re-enrolled in school about halfway into the second quarter of my freshman year of high school. At lunch on my first day I walked with my tray of food into the cafeteria, looked around and decided to make it easy on myself and I sat with the Special-Ed kids. To this day, I have a special place in my heart for the kids in Special-Ed. They make awesome friends. They don’t give a shit about your hair or shoes, they just want to tell you about their Cocker Spaniels and give you odd compliments like telling you your shirt looks jazzy. 

   About three seconds after I sat down, a table full of popular kids waved me over. At first I was nervous because I didn’t know what their intentions were. Did they want me to sit with them, or did they want to steal my metaphoric picture of the oldest kid from Home Improvement out of my metaphoric binder and throw it out of the metaphoric window? To my surprise, it was the former, not the latter. The next day a popular boy saved me a seat on the bus. This was completely confusing to me, but I took to being popular like a duck to water. By my sophomore year, I was very well accepted by my peers (especially the boys) and, with the exception of a few catty bitches with big foreheads who grew up to look like a freaky, tranny Skeletor, I got along with pretty much everyone. 

   One downside to my new-found popularity, was that apparently during my year of being a dropout, everyone my age turned into total hoe-bags. Ok, not all of them, but I was shocked when my friends would talk about having sex. Like, with boys. I now realize that some of them were lying to get attention, but here I was, 15 years old and I hadn’t even come close to kissing a boy. The thought of kissing one of the popular boys who were giving me so much attention totally freaked me out. What If I messed it up? I felt like I was way behind everyone else, experience-wise. But fear not! For I devised a brilliant plan to remedy this. The solution? Youth group, of course!

   I went to a youth group that met up in the middle of nowhere in the country. I’m talkin’ dirt roads and nothing around for miles. At this youth group there were all kinds of fun things to do. There were always activities planned. There was a trampoline. There was a tree house. And there were boys. I met this one shy kid who was my age, pudgy, pubescent, and good enough! When everyone was distracted by my friend’s band playing a new song that they wrote, I grabbed that kid by his not-nearly-masculine-enough hand, and we snuck off to the tree house. That’s where the magic happened. Turns out kissing isn’t all that hard. We managed to sneak back into the crowd without anyone realizing we had left. This guy turned out to be a real asset to me. A few months later we snuck off to try other things that were also my idea, but our absence was noticed this time and it resulted in a really embarrassing lecture from one of the youth leaders about abstinence. She assumed that we had snuck off to do it, but that wasn’t the case at all. I had decided to sneak off with him because I had recently gone on a walk in the woods with a boy from school that I liked and he kept trying to get me to touch his penis through his pants, but I couldn’t stop giggling so he asked me to stop because I was weirding him out. I just wanted to sneak away from youth group for a few minutes because I was curious to know what his pee-pee looked like, which he was more than happy to demonstrate. I’m hoping because he was still in the chubby, awkward phase of puberty, that he just hadn’t quite finished developing because even though it was the first penis I had ever seen, I knew it was really small. Though fascinating, nonetheless. 

    In conclusion and in summary,

  • You can only achieve popularity when you stop trying so damn hard to fit in (also, boobs and eyeliner help).
  • High school sucks, but not nearly as much as middle school.
  • And finally, send your kids to youth group so they can learn about God and what a penis looks like. 

image

Me, in 6th grade at outdoor school. 

image

My 15th birthday.

image

Freshman year.

image

Last day of school, freshman year. 

June222013

The Birth Of Bailey

   Since my birth stories are in such high demand (they aren’t), I will continue the saga by telling the tale of how Bailey came to be. 

   We decided to wait until after my 21st birthday to try for our next baby. I wanted to get drunk legally for the first time in my life, so I thought it through, and figured it would be too challenging to let hot dudes do shots out of my belly button because when I get pregnant my belly button is flush with the rest of my tummy. And when you factor in that it turns brown and has a perfect wagon wheel pattern in it, it looks just like a cat’s butt hole. And ain’t no one want to do shots out of a cat’s butt hole. At least I hope not. Goddammit, now I’m gonna have to Google that.. Plus drinking while you’re with child is frowned upon. Although, I often wonder if giving up booze and coffee was even worth it since my kids turned out three quarters retarded anyways. 

  My 21st birthday was pretty fun. We drove to Portland with some friends, spent all of our money in like ten minutes, then decided to go home, get drunk there and play Mario Kart on the 64 to our heart’s content. 

   Three days after I conceived Bailey (I shit you not), I woke up and told Ben “I’m either pregnant, or I have Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.” I was sooooo tired. I am convinced, despite getting knocked up on the first try each time, that I was never meant to be pregnant. My body goes to shit in ways I never knew could happen. With Bailey I was foggy and tired all the time. My brain was exhausted the whole time. On top of that, I had a rapid heart rate and saw nonexistent spiders crawling on the walls out of the corner of my eye. On the plus side, my usual bout of nausea was shortened to a mere four months, as opposed to six months with my other pregnancies. (Can I please just take a moment to be thankful that I will NEVER be pregnant EVER again? Thank you God for Vasectomies! Ok, moment over. But seriously, I still have nightmares that I find out I’m pregnant and It’s HORRIFYING!!!)

   Fast forwarding a bit, Bailey was a huge baby. And a total dick. She stayed in the same spot with her back as far right in my uterus as possible and she only moved so that she could wedge her bony little feet under my ribs. I would push her feet down, and she would shove them back up even harder. Then three weeks before my due date, she dropped. Since I have hyper-extendable joints, my hips were always on the verge of being pushed out of socket, which basically destroyed my sciatic nerve. It was freaking miserable. So, as you can imagine, when they offered to induce me I was super on board. I got the epidural shortly into my induction, which I now know was a mistake. Having someone shove a giant needle that looks like something manufactured by Acme into your spine is so much worse when you don’t already feel like you’re dying. 

   Since I pushed for three hours with our first baby, Ben assumed that we would be in for another long stint of pushing this time around, too. So when I told him it was almost time and he should go get Rachel, my sister-in-law (who was filming the birth) he decided to take his time and get a drink of water, go to the bathroom and then let her know that things might be happening soon. Meanwhile, my epidural totally abandoned me in my time of need, so I could feel everything. Including the overwhelming urge to push. My body just started pushing with all it’s might, whether I was ready or not. The problem with that, is that I was all alone in my room. I didn’t know what to do. I started pushing all the red buttons I could find and finally a voice said “Can I help you?”. A few seconds later, my doctor came in and halfway lifted my leg and barely put her hand down there when she said “Whoa!! Here we go!” She started ripping my bed apart and the clown car of pediatricians started piling in my room. Just as she unfolds one of the stirrups, and gets my foot in it, Ben comes moseying around the corner. I had been internally freaking out, thinking he was going to miss the whole thing. There was no holding this baby in. Ben made it to my bedside just in time for me to push two and a half times and pop out our baby girl. No joke, if she hadn’t been attached to the umbilical cord, she would have hit the wall on the other side of the room. She was a healthy, fat, 8lb 12oz baby, and she totally tore my junk up like none other on her way out. They managed to repair my lady parts, but I’ve had to sleep with a pillow between my knees everyday for the last seven years because my hips and lower back are a hot mess. Side note, after they stitched up my junk, restoring it from a “t’isnt” back into a “taint”, I wouldn’t stop bleeding. So the nurse practically shoved her entire arm up to the shoulder in there, grabbed a blood clot and yanked it out. I may be exaggerating a bit, but that’s what it felt like. I left that experience with four thoughts, 1) “Ouch”. 2) “Ew”.  3) “I did not want to know that about myself”. It’s one thing to push a baby out of there, but having a stranger lady’s hand up past the knuckles in there AFTER you’ve been stitched up is just off putting. And 4) “I must share this experience with the world so that we may all collectively vomit into our own mouths.” You’re welcome. 

   Alas, I am nearing the end of my birth stories. I only have one more left; the birth of Ava. I’m sure everyone will be super bummed when I no longer have an excuse to talk about my private parts on a public forum, but what can you do? 

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

image

June72013

Accidental Trip to the Strip Club

   Since I was just telling this story and it’s still fresh on my mind, I guess I will tell the tale of my 27th birthday when Ben and I accidentally ended up in a strip club. For three hours. 

   My 27th birthday was easily my best birthday ever. Ben had planned a day of secret adventures around Portland. It was really easy to surprise me because I have no sense of direction whatsoever, so I will have no idea where we are until we are pulling into a parking space. My sense of direction is so bad that Ben used to stop the car a few block away from our house and ask me where we need to go to get home. Then he would humor me and drive all over the place until I either gave up, or we hit the Canadian border. In my defense, the streets were all identical and named after trees. Why can’t they just number the goddamn streets? Or better yet, just make the signs colored shapes and animals like they do with the halls at my kid’s school. “Hello, Police Man. My name is CarolAnn, I’m 28, and I’m lost. Will you please help me find my home? It’s on the corner of purple rhombus and turquoise hippo.” 

   We started out the day at The Grotto, looking at a bunch of really cool looking old statues of Jesus, and whatnot. I find this quite ironic, considering where we ended up later that night. 

                                “In the Grot-to!” -Elvis Presley

           ”Eyyy! Peace be with YOU, brotha!” -Jesus Christ

   Later on we had dinner at Portland City Grill, where I had the most amazing ginger lemon drop known to mankind. After dinner, we stepped outside and I immediately had to pee. Ben suggested we walk thirteen miles to the Ross down the street, (Ew, no thanks) But I said “No, there’s a bar right here across the street.” We asked the guy manning the front door if there was a cover charge, he said no, but only customers can use the restroom. So we were just gonna stay and have a drink, then go on our way. As we are heading in, I tell Ben to order me a Long Island and I head strait for the ladies room. So Ben sits down at the bar and orders our drinks. He ends up making eye contact with a chick across  the bar and gives her a friendly nod, to which she responded by shaking her boobs at him. That’s when Ben looked behind her and saw the naked chick on the pole. Whoops. 

    We decide to find a table and sit down. Ben chose a table far enough away so that he could still see the boobies, but the strippers couldn’t hear him weep softly to himself while he repented for his sins. This is probably for the best because I get the overwhelming urge to compliment the strippers on their performance, which I think is against proper strip club etiquette. I really don’t know, though. We recently visited a strip club for a friend’s birthday (not by accident) and when one of the girls got done dancing, I told her “Good job. Way to be hot”. Call me old fashioned, but I feel like sometimes the best payment for a job well done, is to just say thank you. At this friend’s birthday party, we also met the hottest worst stripper ever. She looked like if Katy Perry had just woke from a coma. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were only half open, but she had an amazing rack. She told us that she’s been a stripper for 12 years and how she was tired and wanted to go home because she had to work from 2:00 to 11:00 the next day. Silly strippers. I don’t mean to say that being a stripper isn’t real work, but I’ve had to clean semi-liquid poop out of a bath mat before. Talk to me when you’ve stayed up all night cleaning someone else’s puke out of your bed, your hair or the outside of the toilet (Bailey had the flu and was refusing to puke. Needless to say, that was a losing battle because she spewed everywhere but in the toilet). And let’s not forget the time I got up in the wee hours of the morning to change Ava’s diaper, and she peed all over the changing table, so I picked her up so I could one-handed-mop up the mess, and she took this opportunity to projectile vomit into my hair and down my back. It was even on the back of my legs. What I wouldn’t have given in that moment to have a job that consisted of getting drunk, and dancing around naked from 2:00 to 11:00. These are things I already do for free at home. 

   Anyways, back to my birthday. Ben had ordered me a Long Island Iced Tea, which in and of itself, is enough to do me in. And he had ordered a vodka and Redbull for himself. He had like half a sip of his drink, and then decided that it wasn’t agreeing with his stomach. I drank both of our drinks. I couldn’t let it go to waste! I mean, there are sober kids in China, for God’s sake. So, after we had our fill of boobies, vodka, Redbull, and whatever magic they put in a Long Island, I just wanted to go home and get weird. Unfortunately Ben said we had to go see a movie at 11:00. He was teasing me about being a lesbian for wanting to cut the night short after hanging at the strip club, but I explained that I was intoxicated enough that I could watch homeless people open-mouth kiss and be good to go. That’s just one of the many great things about alcohol. Another great thing about alcohol? That look of shame and embarrassment on Ben’s face when I do my Single Ladies dance for unwitting people who didn’t really want to watch me dance in the first place. 

   Seeing the movie instead of rushing home for some sloppy drunk lovin’ wasn’t all that bad because afterwards Ben and I went to Voodoo Doughnut for some bacon maple bars. It was like I was in drunk people heaven. I Hasselhoffed the shit out of that bacon maple bar, and I don’t even care who knows it. 

      “This… is…… a mess.” -David Hasselhoff

   Well, friends. That’s the story of my best birthday ever. I find it hard to believe that it can be outdone. It was THAT great. 

June22013

The Birth of Kylie

   What Better way to start off my blog than by talking about the one thing people get sick of hearing me talk about the most? Birth! I’m one of those people who finds watching things give birth totally fascinating. And I forget that some people get uncomfortable when you describe your placenta to them and then physically reenact pushing a person out of your lady business, grunting and all. With that said, sit back and enjoy The Birth of Kylie…

   From as far back as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a mommy. I was obsessed with babies as a kid. I even used to nurse my baby dolls in my armpit when I was really little. So after five long months of marriage, my husband, Ben and I started trying for our first baby. If I’m being honest, Ben didn’t have to try all that hard. One month later, I was officially knocked up! I always imagined pregnancy would be this magical experience. That I would be one of those adorable pregnant chicks with the little basketball tummy, who still wear their pre-pregnancy jeans with a rubber band around the button. Boy, was I mistaken. I spent six months just trying to hold down food, yet every time I would go in for my prenatal appointments, I gained like 80 lbs. I was afraid that when I finally went into labor, that the fire department would have to knock a wall out of my house and hoist me out with a sling attached to a crane like an injured manatee, or something. The doctor would tell me “You should probably go see the nutritionist.” Yeah, well you should probably go fuck yourself. I can’t eat anything. It all smells gross, has a weird texture or I’ve already puked it up at least once, which really turns you off of that food for a very long time. I started eating things based on how easy they were to barf back up later. Sidenote, the worst foods to puke up are burritos (the tortilla congeals everything into one giant softball size blob that wants to all come up at once [the toilet water actually splashed my shirt.]) and barbecue chicken out of your nose in a parking lot. 

   Fast-forwarding to the action, Ben had been trying to politely decline my sexual advances for most of the third trimester because having a baby right there kinda icked him out. But it wasn’t until four days before I had Kylie, when I lost half of my mucus plug (at the time I thought it was the whole thing. Turns out that sucker is so freaking big. Like, oh my God, SO big.) that he finally put his foot down and said NO MORE! Fine. Whatever. Jerk. 

I waited about 12 hours after my labor started to head to the hospital. I was in a lot of pain and figured things must be moving along. I was only one centimeter dilated. Lame. By the time I got to three centimeters, it felt like someone was burying and ax into my pelvis and leaving it there for two minutes, then taking it out, only to do it again three minutes later. Over and over again. The pain was beyond what I had ever imagined. Indescribably bad. I finally got the drugs. Why not? I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to live through this anyways. I would have agreed to a quadruple amputation if it meant stopping the pain. I later found out that Kylie was facing the wrong direction, which was why it hurt so bad so soon. 

   After pushing for three hours, they finally decided to bring in the forceps master to aid my doctor in yanking that baby out. She was stuck. Apparently you can’t be good with forceps AND manners because this dude walks in and dives into my vadge, knuckles deep without so much as looking my in the eye. No formal introduction, or even a casual nod in my direction to say “Hey, sup? Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna make myself at home here.” At this point I didn’t really care. I already had a clown car of pediatricians in my room wandering about. I would have been fine with the janitor checking my cervix at this point. I was really out of it. I was so exhausted that I was sound asleep between contractions, which were about two minutes apart. 

   I’m gonna let you in on something; having forceps in your lady junk is worse than you would imagine. They should just call them what they are; Metal salad spoons. It wouldn’t have been more painful if a Bengal tiger had chewed the baby out of me. But finally, she popped out! They laid her on my belly and this is what I said verbatim “Ohhhh, she has my lips! Did I poop?” Then exhaustion punched me square in the face and I felt like If I didn’t eat and sleep simultaneously, I would die. But I had to wait for them to stitch my lady bits back up so they at least resembled female reproductive parts again. That’s when I noticed that Kylie was born with this flappy little booger-mole on her face and all I could think was “Ew, she’d flawed. Take it back. I didn’t work that hard to have a baby that isn’t perfect.” It’s funny how hormones can make you crazy like that. I slept for like two hours, and when I woke up, I was so freaking excited about finally having my baby! She was perfect, booger-mole and all! (Ps, the booger-mole dried up and fell off after a few days.) Ben, on the other hand, slept like the dead for like twelve hours. He was white as a ghost and silent the whole time I was pushing. He looked like a wreck. I think giving birth was harder on him than it was on me. 

    So that’s it. The story of Kylie’s birth. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the answer is no. I didn’t poop. Thank God. image

image

image

image

June12013

tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?

A hairbrush. You can use it to style your hair, scratch your back or sing into like a microphone, which happens to be my personal favorite. I’ve been singing into my hairbrush for as long as I can remember. The first time I had my husband over to my house before we were even dating, I danced around the living room and sang into my hairbrush for him. Later my mom said “I can’t believe you would act like that in front of a boy that you like.” Obviously it worked out for the best because my husband and I will be celebrating our tenth anniversary later this year. 

Page 1 of 1