tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35401732092116656272024-03-14T14:07:41.684-04:00Shouldn't You Be Working??pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-92064624834739369702014-10-13T13:51:00.001-04:002014-10-13T13:51:41.800-04:00It Must Be Nice....Lately I find myself getting a little crunchier. I don't trust big food or big pharma any farther than I can throw a bushel of GMO sugar beets. Artificial growth hormones, antibiotics and pesticides make me nervous. I'm looking at girls my daughter's age, with their C cups and raging hormones and can't believe that no one blames the milk.<br />
<br />
What I really want to do is raise my own meat, buy local raw milk and make my own cheese and yogurt from it (I tried butter.....it's just impractical), buy locally ground, non-GMO, organic wheat and make my own bread....etc.<br />
<br />
I'm in love with the idea of making my own everything. The idea of not buying a single boxed food item makes me super happy. I want to clean with all natural, homemade products and diaper my son with chemical free cloth.<br />
<br />
But none of these things actually happen. The big hurdle being that we both work. We are a two income family and barely get by on that. We are pretty much clinging to the lowest rung of middle class by our finger nails.<br />
<br />
I recently discovered couponing and price matching and I love it. I think there is a chemical in my brain that reacts to saving money the way that other girls' brains react to chocolate. When I walk out of Walmart with a full cart for $60 I do a little dance (in my head....I don't dance in public.....you're welcome).<br />
<br />
In our recent attempts to eliminate some of the chemicals and additives from our diets (bye bye Coke Zero....I will miss you) I have found that while I can still use coupons for some things, it's not going to be anywhere near the giant haul I used to bring home. Unfortunately, most of the coupons out there are for things we don't really want to eat anymore.<br />
<br />
We plan to raise cows and pigs and eat them. We're hoping to be able to get started on that next spring. I have intended to make my own yogurt for the past 2 weeks. I have serious plans to compost.<br />
<br />
In general, I have a lot of plans and ideas, and I research the crap out of ways to make our lives more natural, less chemical, and healthier.<br />
<br />
But my problem is time. I don't have any. Being at work is actually more restful than being at home. As soon as I get home it's a big push to get everything in my nightly routine completed in a reasonable enough amount of time to get a reasonable amount of sleep before I have to do it again. The list of things that didn't get done is always longer than the list of things I accomplished, and I'm always trying to catch up on what I didn't do the day before.<br />
<br />
I do a lot of reading online. I find these great blogs, with great ideas. I think "well if that chick can pull this off, I totally can". <br />
<br />
I realized something today. While checking out ways to more efficiently tackle laundry, I was reading a post suggesting doing a load every night, switching it in the morning, and if you're really behind throw another load in at lunch time......when it hit me. Lunch time? Oh shit....this woman is a SAHM. (read: Stay At Home Mom). Well no fucking wonder she can handle laundry.<br />
<br />
Now don't get me wrong. I give SAHM's all sorts of credit. It's really freaking hard to stay home and raise kids all day. No sarcasm there. It really is. <br />
<br />
But the revelation that these ladies that write these blogs imparting inspiration and practical ideas to improve your home and life....they aren't trying to do it while working full time. They're just doing it. They don't have to race to the bank on their way home from work before it closes....they can just go to the bank. They don't have to take time off of work to get their kids to the doctor/dentist/school function....they just go. They don't have to go to Walmart at 9:00 at night every Friday after they put the kids to bed and get home at 10:30 just to have to put the groceries away. They don't have to "find time" to shower. <br />
<br />
I guess I'm just jealous. But what I would like to see is a blog written by someone like me. Someone that is working full time, 45 minutes away from home, that has kids in day care (2 different day cares) and still manages to make her own yogurt and keep the house clean. Any suggestions?<br />
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pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-42945655352208150822014-10-13T13:16:00.002-04:002014-10-13T13:16:23.412-04:00Kids<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
HA HA HA HA HA!!<br />
<br />
This is what I found while messing around on Facebook today.<br />
<br />
I love The Oatmeal. The man is fucking hilarious. And in this case....totally right.<br />
<br />
People with children just love to try to make people without them feel the need to reproduce.<br />
<br />
I guess I've never really felt that way. I can't think of one instance where I even asked someone if they were planning to have children in the near future, let alone had an opinion about their answer.<br />
Maybe it's because I have so many friends that don't have children, and aren't really planning to, but I don't have any opinions about a person's reproductive choices. I feel like there are far too many accidental children out there that if someone chooses not to have children....well that's their thing I guess. <br />
<br />
Or maybe it's because neither of my children were planned. When my daughter was born I was too young to have planned to have or not to have children in the future. I was too young to have any real grasp on the concept of a future at all.<br />
<br />
And my son was an oops! as well. My husband and I were not planning on having any more kids. He didn't want children at all. He was cool with being a step-father....but didn't really want the responsibility of having his own spawn. Guess I screwed that up for him.<br />
<br />
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<br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-24080736869691463162014-08-06T12:36:00.003-04:002014-08-06T12:37:17.264-04:00Ignorance is Just Ignorance<br />
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WARNING!!! TMI!!<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is way too much personal
information in this post. If that bothers you, hit your back button!!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
I have completely lost faith in the human race. Well, maybe just in
this new crop of young adults. I swear, they're all idiots. I
really don't remember being a complete idiot when I was in my late teens/young
adulthood. On the contrary, I thought I was a genius; that my parents were
idiots; and that I was destined to save the world. I was much deeper than I am now, and I used much bigger words.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
LMFAO!!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Now I'm a mother of two (sometimes three....men are fucking children) who
just wants to try like hell to keep her house clean-ish (note the key words
there), not screw up my children in my attempts to raise them (so far so good I
think), keep the bills paid enough to keep them from calling me, and to have a
little time to herself (which never happens), and actively tries not to use the phrase "OMG" when speaking out loud. I vote in presidential
elections only, I don't do any volunteer work, and I don't even watch the news
because I don't want to know.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
So, back to the point…..and the TMI.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was looking up home remedies for yeast infections this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I have a yeast infection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all itching, burning horribleness and I
just want to cut off my lady bits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
that is not the point.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
In my research, I kept coming across web forums where stupid girls are
discussing their vagina problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“I had unprotected sex with a guy I barely knew and now I have itching and
discharge….could it be a yeast infection?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Also, he didn’t ejaculate in me…does that matter?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
She goes on to say that her vajay-jay itched and burned for 3 weeks and then
seemed to be all better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So she slept
with her ex-boyfriend and now it is troubling her again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there are little white bumps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn’t want to go to the doctor because
her ex doesn’t know she slept with the other guy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
WTF!?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go to the doctor you stupid
ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better yet…before you go to the
doctor have someone cauterize your snatch so nothing can go in or out and save
the human race from the unfortunate possibility of you conceiving and spawning
another fucking moron.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And worse, this was not the only such post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Girls all over the place are asking the internet what is wrong with
their cha chas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The common response
seemed to be “no one here is a medical professional, go to the doctor” so at
least someone has some sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would
cause a person to turn to the internet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I know…I was, myself, asking the internet for yeast infection
treatments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I have had a number of
yeast infections, and thus know what I was dealing with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just wasn’t interested in stuffing
chemicals in my snatch, so thought maybe there was a holistic solution.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I had to sit through health class in high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a sex ed portion, where I learned
about my snatch and what it might do and when.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course, I also learned that condoms are a good idea, but hey, to each
his own….std.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
“He didn’t ejaculate in me, does that matter?”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Yes dear, the only possible way for you to have contracted a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yeast infection</i> is for your barely known
suitor to cum inside you during unprotected sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Does it make me a very bad person to hope she gets something deadly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess maybe I’m harsh, but you really can’t
fix stupid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Let’s just say, for a minute, that you aren’t an idiot and that you have an
irritation below the belt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you
aren’t sure what it is, but haven’t had a chance to go to the doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you’re looking for some information,
which is something the world wide web excels at providing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would you: (A) Look up possible maladies on a
site such as WebMD?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or (B) Just ask
whoever feels like answering in a forum?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Do you think these people feel like they’re confiding in friends when they
do shit like this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I just don’t
understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I’m not my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up with a
computer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had Windows 3.1 and thought
AOL was the shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to talk in chat
rooms all night and pretend I was much older than I was.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I just feel like the lack of actual human interaction these kids have
because they’re too zoned into their phone or tablet or laptop is reducing the
IQ of the general populous as a whole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All of this tech is actually making us dumber.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<br />
Don’t worry sunshine, someday you’ll be able to just scan your snatch with
your phone and an app will make a diagnosis and email a prescription to your
pharmacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe 3D print the medicine
for you right there??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we aren’t
there yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You still have to go to your
doctor when your promiscuous ways bring the clap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p>PS - according to urbandictionary.com the correct spelling is "vajayjay", although dictionary.com does not recognize this as an actual word. ::wink::</o:p>pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-32025387280966163352014-05-07T10:58:00.000-04:002014-05-07T10:58:07.392-04:00Flushing Toilets and Birthday PartiesI HAVE WATER!!!<br />
<br />
Sorry. I had to capitalize that. It's just so exciting. You have no idea how much you take for granted the simple ability to just flush your toilet until you can't.<br />
<br />
I have a new found love of doing dishes....because I can do them without boiling water and filling a bucket. Running water is truly a beautiful thing.<br />
<br />
And in other news....<br />
<br />
My son's first birthday party was Sunday. We squeezed over 30 people into my parents' living room, as it wasn't very nice outside.<br />
<br />
I got a 5" round little cake for the boy.<br />
<br />
My daughter's first birthday party was 11 year ago. Back then, a local grocery store offered a free cake for the birthday kid. It was an 8" cake. All she did with it was make a mess. She barely ate any of it.<br />
<br />
That's not how my little man rolls. I'm considering changing his middle name to "glutton". The kid ate the entire little cake. More sugar was running through his veins than he had consumed cumulatively in his entire life. <br />
<br />
One minute I was dabbing frosting on his tongue to give him the idea to eat it, the next he was shoving fistfuls of yellow cake and frosting goodness into his mouth. Before I really knew what happened he had consumed it all.<br />
<br />
Our guests were crammed into the kitchen, watching the madness. They kept looking on the floor for the cake that he couldn't possibly have eaten that fast. <br />
<br />
Not my little dude. He ate that fucking thing.<br />
<br />
We both paid for his gluttony later, but it was hilarious.<br />
<br />
Happy birthday buddy.<br />
<br />
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<br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-43792950175476262742014-04-29T16:16:00.001-04:002014-04-29T16:16:27.322-04:00Water Water Everywh.....or NotWater has been a constant issue in the new house. During the initial water test, while we were still trying to get a mortgage and stuff, the test results came back showing Total Coliform bacteria in the water. This isn't that big of a deal apparently. The well contractor I spoke to said that there was more Coliform on the tip of my index finger than there probably was in that water. We had the well shocked, which was sufficient to appease the mortgage gods......but we still won't drink it.<br />
<br />
I keep meaning to have it tested again....but I keep procrastinating (as was to be expected really).<br />
<br />
The weekend before we moved in, the water heater stopped working. This was the first thing to really go wrong, so we freaked a little. It needed a new gas valve, which was a $400 part.<br />
Thankfully, the heater was under warranty for another 5 years, so the part was free.<br />
<br />
One day a few weeks ago I went to turn on the kitchen faucet.....and nothing came out. I ventured into the basement to stare at the expansion tank like I knew what to do....tapped the pressure switch a couple of times, and declared it outside my means to fix. I went to work.<br />
<br />
My husband came home that day, did something to the pressure switch and the water came back on.<br />
<br />
Knowing there was a problem with the pressure switch, we got a new one with the intention of installing it at some point.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to Friday night....around 9:30pm. I'm in the shower. I don't get to shower half as often as I'd like to, so I was reveling in the hot water and soap. My hair is washed and rinsed, and I'm all lathered up in my favorite body wash......<br />
<br />
The water shuts off. "F#%@!!!"<br />
<br />
Happily, I'm a raging dork. My phone was balanced on the lip of the shower door because I was listening to an audio book while I was in there. So I wiped my hands on a towel and called my husband.<br />
<br />
Me: "Honey, I need you to go mess with the pressure switch on the water tank. I'm in the shower covered in soap and there's no water."<br />
H: "Fucking really?" Click.<br />
<br />
So I'm assuming he stomped downstairs and messed with the pressure switch. 15 minutes go by......seriously...15 fucking minutes. I'm still standing in the shower....soapy.<br />
<br />
Finally the man comes in the bathroom and tells me he can't get it to work. I'm going to have to help him install the new pressure switch. (Well, I'm sure he could have installed it himself, but how long was I supposed to stand there exactly?)<br />
<br />
So I wipe the soap off my body with a towel (THANK GOD I had already rinsed my hair), put my jammies on and go down to the basement.<br />
<br />
Between the two of us, and google, we managed to install the new pressure switch.<br />
<br />
And the water still wasn't coming on.<br />
<br />
At that point it was 11:00 PM and enough was enough. I was going to bed.<br />
<br />
For some reason, he and I both determined that because there wasn't a lever on the new pressure switch, that it must be defective.<br />
<br />
So in the morning, I drive into town to buy yet another pressure switch. <br />
<br />
In talking to the nice men behind the counter (who absolutely thought I was an idiot), I start to think maybe it isn't the pressure switch.<br />
<br />
So we bypass the switch, meaning there will only be direct power from the electric panel to the water pump, no switch or controls. The point of this is to make sure the pump is working.<br />
<br />
No water.<br />
<br />
After some more farting around, and google, and calling people who know more about this than we do.....we determine that our well pump has shit the bed. Died. Gone on to well pump afterlife. <br />
<br />
As in we need a new one.<br />
<br />
So we start calling well companies. We have a submersible well pump. Apparently not everyone does this. The first guy referred me to another guy. So first I called the number on the pipe in my yard that is apparently my well.<br />
<br />
Wrong number.<br />
<br />
So we call the guy we were referred to.......<br />
<br />
HOLY SHIT. Our well is over 400 ft. deep. So that means the company has to bring in a crane to get the pump out. New pump, labor and materials.....$2,300.00 freaking dollars.<br />
<br />
Yeah sure...we have that. Just lying around.<br />
<br />
So the short version of the next 2 days is that we are borrowing the money from our parents. Half from each set. We should have the cash in about a week.<br />
<br />
Until then......I've actually done this before. Maybe 6 months before I met my husband, the well at the house I was renting went dry. A new well had to be drilled. It was a long and complicated process which resulted in us having no running water for a month. 4 weeks. 30-ish days. Think about that.....really think about it....no washing dishes. No laundry. No shower. All of that can be circumvented simply by living around the corner from one's parents. The really hard part....no flushing the toilet.<br />
<br />
So...at the time a friend of mine came to the rescue by letting us borrow a 200 gallon water tank with a hose on it. We filled the tank at my parents' house and drove it over to mine in a truck, and filled buckets to bring inside.<br />
<br />
So that is what we are doing now. Same water tank. Probably the same buckets. Same level of annoyance.<br />
<br />
As my husband said last night, "It's like camping....only not fun."<br />
<br />
pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-84094797495768935602014-04-29T15:33:00.004-04:002014-04-29T15:33:46.447-04:00It's OkIn other news.....<br />
<br />
Who's fucking idea was it to buy a house? Oh. Yeah. Mine.<br />
<br />
I love my house. It's cute, and old and a little charming. It has 5 excellent acres, and the view from the back yard is pretty damn picturesque. <br />
<br />
But most of all....it's mine.<br />
<br />
I haven't even lived in it for 3 months, and already it feels more like home than the house I rented for 7 years. <br />
<br />
That being said.....it was a fixer upper. That's the only reason we could afford it. We had an inspection done. We had a friend who is a contractor come out and look at it and tell us what needed fixing and how much that would cost. We had a pretty good idea of what we were getting ourselves into.<br />
<br />
Or so we thought. Every day something else is wrong. We worked on the house every day after work and every weekend for 2 months solid. It was to the point where I was paying the babysitter more than going to work was worth. I would leave for work around 8am and wouldn't get home again until 8pm. My son was visibly upset by the lack of time he was spending with us. My daughter's schedule was a constant juggling act. We were so tired and so burned out.....we just couldn't do it anymore.<br />
<br />
So....I pulled the pin and we just moved in. It wasn't ready....but if we were waiting for the house to be done it would be years before we could move in. <br />
<br />
So we moved in and set up a make shift bedroom in our dining room.<br />
<br />
First night there, we found out just what "no insulation in the walls" means. We froze. The dining room is on the opposite end of the house from the new pellet stove we installed. It couldn't have been more than 45 degrees in there.<br />
<br />
My daughter's room is right above the dining room. She also froze, but she sucked it up like a big kid and didn't say anything. The one time in her life, ever, that she just sucked it up and didn't complain and it was over something totally reasonable to complain about. <br />
<br />
The next night she slept on the couch....next to the toasty pellet stove. <br />
<br />
My son spent most of that first week sleeping in our bed with us.<br />
<br />
The first night, my husband brought him in bed with us at the wee hours of the morning, and the poor boy's legs and feet were icy. The very next day I was at Walmart picking out fleece to make him a baby sleep sack (like a blanket they can't take off). <br />
<br />
The 2nd day we were there, my husband messed around with the heating duct and cleaned it all out, replaced it in some places, and POOF it's warm in there now. In the duct work was enough cat hair to make two cats. Hmmm...Maybe that's why the heat circulation sucks.<br />
<br />
I spent the rest of that first week trying like hell to unpack. It turns out that trying to fit a 3500 sq. ft. house into an 1800 sq. ft. house is like trying to get a fat girl into a wetsuit.<br />
I have NO CLOSET SPACE. I have maybe 8 less kitchen cabinets than I had in my previous house.<br />
There isn't so much as one shelf, cabinet or closet in the bathroom. I have an entire box of bathroom stuff that is still sitting in a box in my living room because I have nowhere to put it.<br />
<br />
After 3 weeks of sleeping in the dining room, during one of the coldest winters in history, our bedroom was finally sheet rocked, taped and painted. We moved our bed upstairs.<br />
<br />
The next day we put up pet gates and brought the dogs home. Our poor dogs had spent the previous 3 weeks in a kennel at my parents' house because I didn't want my un-neutered stud dog hiking his leg on my bed (Because I'm an unreasonable bitch like that). I pulled into the driveway with five dogs in the back of my car, barking and drooling like....well like dogs. My husband stood in the doorway and called the mongrels. They all lost their minds. Being stuck in a kennel for that extended period of time made them a little hyper, but they're home now and starting to settle down.<br />
<br />
In general, my attitude about the house is different than my husband's attitude. I see it as an investment, as a milestone, as the place my kids will grow up and where we will spend our life.<br />
<br />
He sees bills and work. To his credit.....there are plenty of both. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-11237276169256025212014-03-05T14:25:00.000-05:002014-03-05T14:25:48.845-05:00The Boy's Birth Story<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~~Go ahead and skip this if you're not all that interested in hearing about the birth of my bouncing baby boy. There's not all that much funny in here.~~~~~</div>
<br />
<br />
My son was due to be born on May 15th. It was the longest, most miserable, most emotional and dramatic pregnancy ever. I won't repeat what I've surely written before. But it sucked! It sucked so much that I tied my tubes the next day, and only regretted it for a minute in a purely philosophical way.<br />
<br />
This is the story of the day and a half that was the culmination of the previous 9 months.<br />
<br />
So he was due on May 15th. On April 30th, my water broke in a series of events that I can't even believe....go ahead and read that post <a href="http://www.shouldntyoubeworking.blogspot.com/2013/10/oh-ick.html" target="_blank">here</a>....I'll wait....<br />
<br />
So as I'm alternating between the shower and the toilet waiting for my mom to get there with pillow sized maxi pads, I called my midwife.<br />
<br />
I was all excited, and a little breathless. I didn't want to be pregnant for another 2 weeks. I'd also started contracting while I was in the shower. Not painfully, but it was there. I'd timed it.<br />
<br />
So I told my midwife that the contractions were 4 or 5 minutes apart and lasting about 15 to 30 seconds....etc etc.<br />
<br />
She told me to take a nap and call them when I was closer to the 5-1-1 rule.<br />
<br />
My mother took my daughter home with her, much to the kid's distress. She wanted to be there when her brother was born. I explained that this could be a long process. I wasn't even going to the hospital yet. When it got close I would call her in.<br />
<br />
A couple of hours go by. The contractions were starting to be a bit uncomfortable. They were also about 45 seconds long and 2 to 3 minutes apart. The hospital was 45 minutes away. So I pulled the plug on my planned long period of laboring in the comfort of my own home, and we decided to go to the hospital.<br />
<br />
To his credit, husband was very calm. I didn't expect that. I thought he'd be freaking out a little. He calmly packed his bag while I finished packing mine. The baby's bag had been packed for a month.<br />
<br />
As we were driving to the hospital the contractions were getting stronger. It was harder to focus on the conversation I was having with my husband, and every time a contraction came more water leaked out of me. (on to the two towels on top of a plastic garbage bag that covered the seat....he was pretty grossed out by the chance that my fluids might touch his upholstery)<br />
<br />
We arrived at the hospital at like 11:00pm on Tuesday night.<br />
<br />
I keep calling it a hospital. Actually, it was a birthing center. I think this is a noteworthy distinction. It was a birthing center. I had a midwife, not a doctor. I had a one page birth plan, that started out as a 2 page birth plan but I pared it down to one to be less obnoxious.<br />
<br />
I was going to do this naturally. No drugs. No Pitocin. No unnecessary procedures. No interference. I seriously considered doing a home birth. <br />
<br />
So, back to the story. We arrived at the <em>birthing center </em>at like 11:00pm on Tuesday night.<br />
<br />
They were expecting me, so they take me back to their triage area so they can determine whether I'm actually in labor or not. I was wearing a wrap skirt and a comfy black tank top and flip flops. I was determined to remain in this outfit.<br />
<br />
So a rather bitchy nurse takes all of my vitals and then hands me this belly band type thing. She asks me to put it on so they can keep the baby monitors under it so as to not have to mess with straps. I agree and go into the bathroom to squeeze into it.<br />
<br />
The very next contraction after I put that damned thing on was the worst one yet. All of a sudden there was a pain in my left side, just beneath my ribs, to go along with the already uncomfortable contractions. The pain was worse than the contractions. I said something about it to several nurses over the course of my labor, and they all said that it was probably just the position of the baby and there was nothing they could do about it.<br />
<br />
So they admitted me and brought us to a room and what not. I handed everyone in the world my birth plan. Then they left us alone. They came back often, and strapped that monitor to me. It wasn't long before I ditched the stupid belly band. I also ditched the wrap skirt once I ditched the underwear for easy of hoohah access. Ditching the underwear meant I ditched the pad keeping all of those lovely fluids from soaking everything within 2 feet of my vag. One contraction and my skirt was soaked. <br />
<br />
So rocking a hospital gown and slipper socks I walked around the maternity floor. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. I sat on a birthing ball. I took a shower. I ate and drank and once we got into the wee hours of the morning I tried to sleep. <br />
<br />
By morning, my contractions had dropped down from every 2 to 3 minutes, to every 5 to 6 minutes. By lunch time they were every 8 to 10 minutes. I had been one centimeter dilated for 2 weeks already, and I hadn't progressed beyond that. <br />
<br />
My midwife came in at some point on Wednesday. She suggested that we go home and come back when the contractions got going again. We talked about it and decided to stay. We were already there and the room was actually pretty comfortable and the 45 minute drive wasn't something I wanted to make if it got hairy. So we stayed. <br />
<br />
Although my contractions were getting farther apart, they were growing in intensity. Every time I had a contraction, I tensed up, bracing myself for the pain. This was the problem as it turned out. Instead of relaxing into my contractions and letting my body work, I was fighting it. Hence, I wasn't dilating.<br />
<br />
Every time they laid me on the bed and strapped that monitor to me, it was so much worse. They wanted me to stay there like that for 20 minutes every hour. It was the longest 20 minutes ever. <br />
<br />
By midnight on Wednesday the 1st (or maybe it was Thursday the 2nd.....yeah I guess it was since it was midnight) I was a mess. I was tired. I was in pain. My husband, though supportive and helpful if I asked for something, had no clue what to do for me if I didn't ask for it. He mostly slept and watched TV. <br />
<br />
He was sleeping when the nurse came in at around midnight. I asked her to check my cervix. They had been staying out of there since my water had broken to keep from transferring bacteria from hands to snatch. But I begged. So she did.<br />
<br />
I was only 3 centimeters dilated. I had been contracting for 28 hours and I was only 3 fucking cm???<br />
<br />
I broke.<br />
<br />
I started crying like a little sissy girl.<br />
<br />
Part of my birthing plan was for no one to offer me drugs, so I wouldn't be tempted. Its easier to say yes when offered something you don't believe in than it is to ask for it outright.<br />
<br />
This nurse asked. She told me that I needed to sleep. That it was ok. She could give me something that would help me sleep and just take a little edge off the pain. I cried harder. I told her I would think about it.<br />
<br />
I got off the bed and walked over to the bed/chair that my husband was sprawled out on. I sat down next to him and sobbed.<br />
<br />
He woke up after a minute and panicked a little. <br />
<br />
I told him that she offered me drugs, and that I wanted to take them. That after all of this pain and time I was only 3 cm. and I didn't think I could go on like this without some sleep.<br />
<br />
An emotional discussion later and I was pushing the nurse button.<br />
<br />
I took the drugs. She came in and gave me a shot and I fell into sweet, sweet sleep.<br />
<br />
I could still kinda feel the contractions. My drug fogged brain was alerted to some pain for a minute, then I was out again.<br />
<br />
Around 3:00 am I woke up. I had a horrible contraction, and had to go to the bathroom. I was instructed not to get out of bed without help, but I really had to go and I was sure I could do it. <br />
I managed to haul my foggy self out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom.<br />
<br />
The "I have to go" sensation had been a long standing thing. The last day and then some had been a non-stop feeling of having to go to the bathroom. Part of it was that I really did have to pee. A lot. But several times a day I thought I had to poop. I never did poop, and the nurses all said it was just pressure from the baby's head, which had been pressed right up against my cervix for a week anyway.<br />
<br />
So I sit on the toilet to attempt to go to the bathroom for the 20th time that day. <br />
<br />
And everything changed. I started to use the muscles we all use to go potty, and I felt the unmistakable urge to push. Which turned into a need to push. Which changed to my body doing it's damndest to push that baby out. If you've never had a vaginal birth I can't actually explain this to you. If you have....you know exactly what I'm talking about.<br />
<br />
I said "Holy shit, I'm pushing" and pulled the string in the bathroom without hesitation.<br />
<br />
The little voice came over the speaker "what's wrong?". Because the strings are for emergencies. I said "I'm pushing". And 12 people came rushing into my room. <br />
<br />
They ushered me back to the bed. The rest is a vague memory.<br />
<br />
They asked questions. They strapped the monitor to me again. They had me turn on my side. On my other side. On my hands and knees....this one was tough because the sensation to push became 10 times stronger and they kept telling me not to push. I actually said "I don't know how you expect me not to push like this". (I was really rude because I was still foggy from the drugs. I apologized later.) They put an oxygen mask on my face.<br />
<br />
Finally they announced that they couldn't find the baby's heartbeat and I was going to have to push this baby out right now.<br />
<br />
They called my midwife.<br />
<br />
Through all of this my husband slept on the chair that was a bed, or the bed that was a chair...whatever. I said "Honey, wake up!! I'm having a baby." And he did.<br />
<br />
They rolled me on to my back and told me to push. They wanted me to just continuously push. At once point the nurse between my legs said "no, keep pushing" and I said "but I'm not having a contraction" and she told me to keep pushing anyway. Which I didn't, because I couldn't. <br />
<br />
When I pushed, I made noise. Loud noise. Xena Warrior Princess kinds of grunts and yells. They told me to be quiet. I ignored them.<br />
<br />
At least twice my husband tried to leave the room to go call my mother. Yes...really. The 2nd time (I think) I lost my shit.<br />
H: I'm going to go call your mother.<br />
Me: The hell you are. She can't even get here in time and I'm having a baby and you are going to fucking stand here and hold my hand!!<br />
<br />
So finally the nurse said, "there he is, push hard honey". And I did. She told me to push through the burn and get him out of there. So I did. <br />
<br />
Out came my son. I pushed him out in less than 20 minutes. They cut the cord, which was wrapped around his neck, and had him across the room so fast I didn't even see it happen. There were nurses in between my legs, in my face and all around me, asking me questions and doing things. All I could hear was the nurse (the same one that offered me the drugs) saying over and over again "come on baby, come on little guy, come on". And he didn't cry. For like 2 minutes. Two minutes is a very long time. I kept asking "Is he ok? Is he ok? Is he ok?"<br />
<br />
Finally he cried. It was honestly the best sound I've ever heard and I honestly thanked a god, that I've never been too interested in, for that cry.<br />
<br />
They finally brought my son over to me and laid him on my chest. I looked at his little, gooey, bruised face and said "Hi baby". My husband took a picture. Then almost immediately they took him away. Off to the place where they keep babies they are worried about.<br />
<br />
So the "burn" I was told to push through was actually me tearing. Part of my birth plan was that I didn't want an episiotomy. So even if there had been an individual around that was qualified to do it, they wouldn't have cut me. It sucked. Ripping is worse, don't let them tell you different. Several stitches. My midwife showed up just after all the excitement was over and assisted in the delivery of my placenta and stitched me up.<br />
<br />
It was hours before they brought my son back to me. He was small and pink and had a stupid IV in his little arm. Apparently he took a dump on his way out and they wanted to be sure he didn't breathe in any of it. Good call, right? <br />
<br />
He had bruises around his mouth and a nearly black eye from the effort I expended on pushing him out.<br />
<br />
My husband was sure I was going to be in labor for another day or so. I was too. Apparently it was the drugs that did it. I was fighting my body so hard that it took a drug induced sleep to allow my cervix to dilate. So I literally dilated like 7 cm. in like 2 hours while sleeping.<br />
<br />
My daughter showed up a few hours later. My husband had called my mother shortly after the boy had been taken away by the birthing center staff and filled her in. <br />
<br />
The girl loved her little brother on sight, and I have the most beautiful picture of her holding him for the first time with this adoring look in her eyes.<br />
<br />
My mother said that if I hadn't had that baby soon, she would've had to hit my daughter over the head with a large frying pan. She was restless and worried and just couldn't stop asking about me, and wondering various things about her brother. It was cute. Glad it was her, not me. <br />
<br />
Two days later we finally left the birthing center. The sun was shining and I spent the next fucking week in my bed with the baby, recovering from the episiotomy and having my tubes tied.<br />
<br />
But that's another story all together.<br />
<br />
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<br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-16240196682944101022014-03-05T12:03:00.002-05:002014-03-05T12:03:53.819-05:00To The Mattresses<br />
It's been almost a month, and finally we moved our bed into the bedroom last night. We drag the mattress upstairs. It's a tight squeeze. <br />
Me: "Guess what isn't going to fit up the stairs?"<br />
Husband: ::::Blank Stare::::<br />
Me: "The box spring."<br />
Husband: "Oh sure it will, watch me."<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, it had taken squishing down the mattress a bit to get it to fit up the stairs. Box springs don't squish. But I kept my mouth shut.<br />
<br />
So we get to the part where we intend to take the box spring upstairs.....we had to take it out the front door to get it pointed straight at the stairs....hubby starts up the stairs backward, I'm standing outside holding the other end. THUD!!<br />
<br />
The box spring hit the top of the door frame. <br />
<br />
We tilt it to the left. Thud.<br />
<br />
We tilt it to the right. Thud.<br />
<br />
He actually tried to squish it like the mattress.<br />
<br />
No go.<br />
<br />
So he starts taking apart the door frame. One piece at a time. <br />
<br />
An hour and a half later, there is no door frame and the box spring is upstairs.<br />
<br />
So I guess when he said "Watch me" he meant "watch me break the house so we can get the box spring up the stairs".<br />
<br />
pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-35574085876380513932014-01-28T11:28:00.000-05:002014-01-28T11:28:10.606-05:00DeflatedYou know when someone gives you a lecture, and it's meant to be a pep talk....to pump you up to do better....but all it does it make you feel defeated?<br />
No?<br />
Well that's me today. Someone that probably meant well decided I needed this talk. She is totally right by the way. Not that I needed the talk. I didn't. In fact, it was probably the last thing I needed. I'm overwhelmed enough as it is. I'm tired, and sore and buried so deep in life that I'm struggling fruitlessly to just scrape away enough to see the light ahead. <br />
Then came this "talk".<br />
She was right about several things that she said....not all, but several....but it didn't have the desired effect.<br />
Now....I'm just done. Fuck it. <br />
She meant it to fire me up to try harder and do better. I don't want to try anymore. I don't want to do any of it, let alone do it better. <br />
We bought a house. It's a huge fixer upper. Every day I get up, get my 11 year old on the bus, then go get myself ready for work. Then I wake the baby up, feed him, change him and get him ready to go to my mother's house. Then I get my ass to work. I work as many hours as I can manage to. Then I go out to my new house and work there as much as I can without pissing off my sitter. On the weekends I have to try to find a babysitter so I can go over there and work some more. <br />
I have barely begun to pack. We have pushed back our moving date twice now. <br />
I have so much to do, and no time to do it, and in there somewhere I have to find time to buy groceries, cook dinner, take care of my dogs and horses and kids. <br />
I'm completely burned out and exhausted.<br />
Last week, my boss went on vacation. I busted my ass trying to hold together the loose ties that he left in his wake, just trying to keep things going while he was gone.<br />
Now I get this lecture about being focused on work while I'm at work, and I just want to slap her.<br />
I just want to say, fuck it. The house can sit there empty for as long as it takes to get it done. We can move one fucking box at a time, because that's all the time and energy I have for packing. <br />
I'm already to the point where I can't do this anymore, and then I get a lecture. <br />
Sigh.....I need a nap.<br />
<br />
pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-74570862797981246702014-01-20T16:02:00.000-05:002014-01-20T16:02:17.576-05:00Misadventures in PaintingThursday morning I threw my back out. That's a very vague concept...throwing out one's back. The specifics involve a disc that hates me and every now and then decides to get angry and cause me a lot of pain in my lower back. <br />
It's never a good story either. The first time I injured my back I was taking off my pants. I bent down to slide my pants down my legs and couldn't stand up. The second time....I coughed. I was sick and the cough threw my upper body forward a fraction of an inch, and my back screamed at me.<br />
This time I bent down just a little to lower my son into his exersaucer. <br />
<br />
The pain involved in this tiny movement is amazing. What it means for me is probably a week of being unable to do much of anything. Sitting hurts. Walking hurts. I can't actually stand up totally straight. I can't bend over. I can't lift much. Getting out of bed in the morning takes several minutes....and hurts.<br />
<br />
None of which is conducive to remodeling a house that we were planning to move into next weekend. I was sanding the floors, and meant to continue to do so this week....but that's out of the question now.<br />
<br />
About the only thing I can actually do right now is paint. There is a lot of painting to do, so that's fine. The main priority is painting the kids' rooms so we don't have to move all of their crap around to paint after we move in.<br />
<br />
So on Sunday I was painting my son's room. I had put two coats on the walls and it had dried. I was moving around the room taking tape off of the trim and putting new tape on the walls so I could paint the trim.<br />
<br />
When I had started sanding the floor in his room, I removed the floor register so I could sand around it. I hadn't put it back yet because I wasn't done sanding in there.<br />
<br />
I had put down a clear plastic drop cloth to keep the paint off the floor (I'm a horrible, messy, slob of a painter). You know where this is going now I'm sure.....<br />
<br />
So I had walked past the 6" x 10" or so hole in the floor at least 5 times by now, and had said to myself "Don't fall in the hole...."<br />
<br />
I'm a terrible listener.<br />
<br />
I go to pull the tape off the trim near the closet and stepped directly in the hole in the floor. My leg instantly plummeted into the basement and stopped when my thigh got wedged in the hole about halfway to my Hoo-hah. There was this big, metallic crash as the ducting that lets heat flow into his room fell to the basement floor. <br />
<br />
So I'm sitting there....thigh deep in a hole in the floor.....with terrible back pain. I hauled myself out of the hole and plopped my ass down on the floor. It hurt. A lot. There was sheet metal stapled inside the hole in the floor.....it's no longer there. <br />
<br />
So I'm sitting on the floor.....crying. Crying because it hurt. Crying because my back hurts more now. Crying because I can't believe I put my foot through the register. Crying because I can't do anything else but paint this stupid room.<br />
<br />
As if on queue.....my husband walks in.<br />
<br />
"How's the painting going?.....Why are you on the floor? ....Are you crying?....Why are you crying?"<br />
<br />
So I tell him the story.....his response?<br />
<br />
"Fuck!! You mean if I'd walked down here two minutes earlier I would have witnessed that?! Damn it!!"<br />
<br />
I will be posting the details of his funeral later.pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-40069466142389765922014-01-08T13:13:00.000-05:002014-01-08T13:13:04.710-05:00The Husband on MenstruationWarning....Graphic Language and Gross Descriptions....<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture Courtesy of </span><a href="http://www.redwombatstudio.com/gallery2/main.php?g2_itemId=250" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Red Wombat Studio</span></a></div>
<br />
There.....warned you.<br />
<br />
I didn't have my period for 9 months. That tends to happen when you're pregnant. It was great. Then I popped out a kid, and bled like a sacrificial bull for six fucking weeks. I'm breast feeding...which is considered a viable form of birth control. You aren't supposed to get your period...or ovulate....while you're breastfeeding. If that is how it went for you.....fuck off.<br />
<br />
A month after I stopped bleeding all over the place from child birth, I got my fucking period. My best friend, who had a baby 9 days before I did, still hasn't had a visit from Aunt Flo and our children are 8 months old. I hate her.<br />
<br />
I had a bilateral tubal ligation (tubes tied) the day after my son was born. If that right there doesn't tell you how fantastic my pregnancy was.....<br />
<br />
I had been on birth control my whole life. Or at least I'd been forgetting to take my birth control my whole life anyway. Regardless of the frequency of the stuff, I was doped up on artificial hormones more often than not for the last 15 years or so. <br />
<br />
Armed with my fancy new tubal ligation, I no longer need to take pills to keep from having any more darling little pooping, crying, snotting love muffins. So.....my first few periods after the boy was born were.....interesting. Apparently those hormones were all that was keeping my uterus from hemorrhaging all over the place. Like dying Niagara Falls red. And I wasn't expecting it. My cycle had always been pretty consistent. So when I was changing feminine hygiene products every two hours, I was a little taken aback. I didn't throw out the paper pillows they call pads at the hospital...thank god.<br />
<br />
My husband has a dickhead's view of a woman's menstruation. It is definitely brought on by Satan, and should be avoided at all costs. Which is ironic, as he definitely gets his period more often than I do.<br />
<br />
Earlier this week, I got my period overnight. These are the events that followed:<br />
<br />
My husband brought the baby in our bed around 7:00am, waking me up.<br />
I had to pee.<br />
I announced that I had to pee so that Husband was aware it was his job to keep the baby alive.<br />
I went into the bathroom and discovered that I had made a bit of a mess.<br />
I finished my business and stripped off my now stained pajamas and jumped in the shower.<br />
My dear husband walked into the bathroom, holding the baby, just as I had stepped out of the shower and was drying off.<br />
Husband: "I thought you were just going to the bathroom?"<br />
Me: "I bled all over myself."<br />
Husband: "I know....you got it on the bed."<br />
Me: "Oh, well if you knew.....ugh...never mind...I will take care of that in a minute."<br />
Husband: "Well hurry up, I have stuff to do."<br />
Me: "....................."<br />
Me: "Honey, what would you do if I got blood on you?"<br />
Husband: "Probably die."<br />
Me: "And then immediately shower to wash it off of you."<br />
Husband: "No, I think I would burn my skin off instead."<br />
Me: "Ok well....fuck off...I'll be out in a minute."<br />
<br />
He means it. He thinks it's battery acid and would kill him on contact. If I didn't have better things to do I would chase him around the house with a used tampon. I imagine it would sound a lot like Goofy falling off a cliff. <br />
<br />
<br />
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pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-60522710988797138382014-01-07T16:16:00.001-05:002014-01-07T16:16:53.504-05:00Shit My Kid Says....Part Deux"Mom....My boobs hurt."<br />
<br />
Yeah....I bet they do....you little.....<br />
My daughter is 11, and officially hitting puberty. It started about a year ago. Well, to be fair, it probably started 2 years ago when I noticed that the 10 year old should probably start wearing training bras. You see....she's a little husky. I was too. At 10 I totally had little fat girl boobs, and to this day I curse my mother for not slapping a bra on me. I absolutely blame her for my less than perky state.<br />
<br />
So she has been wearing a bra for a couple of years now. She has been getting progressively bitchier for about a year. To the point where, I swear, if she opens her mouth again I'm going to duct tape it closed...and throw her in her room until she comes to terms with her hormones in about 5 years.<br />
<br />
I was a wretched teenager. I can't believe that my mother let me live. I used to blat that my mother was abusive when I was a teenager. Now, I see that she was the absolute image of self control. I deserved every one of those swats she gave me for being a wretched bitch. (Except maybe one.....oh ok, all of them.)<br />
<br />
My daughter is going to be every bit as bad as I was....perhaps worse. She and I already have an antagonistic relationship. We are so alike that we butt heads constantly. I can't let it go and neither can she. Now that there are hormones involved, and my patience is already thin because I have a fucking teenager and an almost toddler at the same time, I might have to pack her off to boarding school for her health.<br />
<br />
About 6 months ago, she and I were at the doctor's office. It was a hot day, and she was wearing a sleeveless shirt. She lifted up her arm to fix her pony tail....and the bush of hair that peeked out from her armpit was right in my face. <br />
<br />
I said "Honey....when we get home I'm going to teach you how to shave your armpits."<br />
This lesson was interesting...and came with a threat to her life if I caught her shaving her legs, and a warning that if she shaved that little blond peach fuzz on her upper lip she would end up looking like her Aunt Sybil. <br />
<br />
Tangent: My mother never taught me these things. I didn't even know arm pits should be shaved until I was about 13 and a teenage boy (go ahead a cringe...it's ok) commented on my hairy state. He wasn't discreet about it. (Ewww! Shave your pits!!) The first time I shaved my legs....on my own, with no instruction....I did it with my dad's razor and sliced my legs to ribbons, followed by the worst razor burn known to woman kind.<br />
<br />
When she started crying for no reason 2 months ago, I showed her where to find the panty liners and sent her teacher a warning email.<br />
<br />
Last week, she says to me......you know what, never mind. It involved her unmentionables, and funny as it was, I still don't feel right talking about her lady parts on the Internet.<br />
<br />
The point being that the arm pits weren't alone.<br />
<br />
So when she told me last night that her boobs hurt......I showed her where the panty liners were again.<br />
<br />
We live with my husband (who is not her father) and a male roommate. God forbid the poor girl have to ask my husband what to do if she gets her aunt flo while I'm not home. Poor girl. Poor, poor Husband. He can't even tolerate the fact that I bleed regularly (an entire post devoted to this will be published tomorrow)....I don't think he would handle that conversation well. <br />
<br />
So I'm just sitting back, waiting to teach her how to remove blood stains from sheets and underwear. It's going to be any second now. In a text book somewhere on pre-menstrual teenagers is a picture of my daughter.....any time now. I wonder if it was that obvious with me.<br />
pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-55088058551055254022013-10-15T14:33:00.002-04:002013-10-15T14:33:50.758-04:00Oh Ick!!Warning.....this is going to get a little gross. Feel free to skip this post if you're a little squeamish. I won't be offended.<br />
<br />
My due date was May 14th. Two weeks to go and I was feeling huge. Everyone that saw me said that I looked like I had dropped. I was generally miserable, and absolutely ready to not be pregnant anymore. At around 8:30 pm on Tuesday, April 20th I wanted ice cream. I asked my husband if he wanted ice cream as well, and got in my car and went to the store. <br />
<br />
It's only about a 5 minute drive from my house to Stewart's (for those of you not from upstate NY or Vermont...Stewart's is a local staple. It's a convenience store mostly. But the company has it's own brand of everything....milk, soda, chips, coffee, and most importantly ice cream. I'm pretty sure they started as an ice cream company.) and about half way there my phone beeped that I had a text message. As I had been really trying to be good about not looking at my phone while driving, I left it alone until I pulled into the parking lot. <br />
<br />
The message had been from my friend that had just had her baby a week before. She had sent me some pictures of herself standing in front of a mirror, showing off how flat her stupid, skinny stomach was only a week after having a baby (you can call her a bitch. I do.)<br />
<br />
So I was flipping through the pictures she sent, and responding to her, when I felt more than heard this weird pop. It has come from my lower half. I thought "What the hell was that?" But I think that I knew what it was.<br />
<br />
I put the phone down and opened my car door. I cautiously stepped out of the car.....and felt the liquid roll down the inside of my leg.<br />
<br />
I live in a small......<em>town</em> I guess. There isn't really a town center or a town government or anything. But everyone knows everyone else. My daughter (not myself) is related to half of the people that live there. (Which is a good thing because that means she can't date anyone there without a reasonable possibility that it would be considered incest.) Stewart's is also the only thing in this little <em>town, </em>so there is an excellent chance that at least 10 people that I knew pretty well and another 10 that knew who I was would have been there. Considering my typical luck....maybe more like 20.<br />
<br />
I hopped back in the car...heart beating out of my throat and drove home. I called my friend who had sent me the pictures on the way.<br />
<br />
Me: "I have never been so thankful to have to scroll through a bunch of pictures in my life. You just saved my ass."<br />
<br />
Her: "Why? What Happened?"<br />
<br />
Me: "Dude, my water just broke."<br />
<br />
Her: "YAY!!!"<br />
<br />
Me: "Yeah, and if you hadn't sent me that text when you did, and if there hadn't been a bunch of pictures attached, and if I hadn't waited until I parked to look at them.....well it would have happened in the store instead of in my car. In <em>MY </em>Stewart's. In a small town. I would've been that girl whose water broke in Stewart's for the rest of my life."<br />
<br />
Her: "Holy shit. You're welcome."<br />
<br />
So I get home and waddle my soaking wet ass upstairs. I tell my husband that he can't have any ice cream, as I strip off my gooey jeans, because my water broke. I jump in the shower to try to reduce the amount of amniotic fluid that hits the floor. <br />
<br />
That was a useless effort. How do women manage this? I had my mom go to the store to get maxi pads. Big ones. I must have changed that thing 8 times before we left for the hospital. <br />
<br />
Every time I had a contraction, more goo gushed out. It was fucking everywhere. I was standing on the porch talking to my roommate, waiting for the contractions to get close enough together to merit a trip to the hospital. I coughed......oh my god. A spurt of fluid splatted on the stone of the front porch....through the maxi pad. My roommate was totally grossed out. "Awww, dude, really? Like really? On the porch?" My husband was equally skeeved out by all the mess I was making.<br />
<br />
I cleaned up the tiny mess I had made on the seat of my car. It was really only a spot about 2 inches across. He refused to take my car to the hospital. He didn't want to sit in my "filth". At which point I told him to shut his mouth or I would lose the maxi pad and leak all over the seat of his car. It amazing how well a man can listen when you threaten him and his possession with bodily fluids.<br />
<br />
The rest of this story will have to wait for another time. pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-33948635072550634192013-10-11T14:12:00.002-04:002013-10-11T14:12:50.582-04:00Oh, You Mean THIS Unmarked Grave, Officer?So my planned post for today was going to be about my water breaking....which is a hilarious story. But I find that I'm too pre-occupied with my husband's bullshit to write that post.<br />
So you all get to hear about the special individual that I'm stuck with until death do we part......:::clears throat:::<br />
<br />
My husband didn't want any children. He said so on our first date. It was almost a deal breaker. I have the girl child, but I always wanted more children. A chance to have a real family. <br />
It took a while, but at some point I became ok with only having my daughter. She was on her way to her wretched teen years, and if I had another child the two of them wouldn't be friends until they were adults. I would have to have two more in order to avoid raising another only child (which sucks....don't do it!!!). My daughter was so independent, I barely had to do anything for her anymore. If she could drive, she would take care of herself completely.<br />
<br />
So we decided to get married, and decided not to have any more children. He would be a great step father and leave it at that. <br />
<br />
While on our honeymoon, we went deep sea fishing (his thing....I don't really fish). Someone asked me if I was going to get sea sick. I said (and I quote) "Nah, the last time I was sea sick I was pregnant, so I'm not worried"....foreshadowing anyone???<br />
<br />
I did get sea sick. Not like yaking over the side or anything...just really queasy. But the waves were high, and most of the people on the boat were feeling yucky. The whole next day I was out of commission. Feeling gross all day. The next day, still not so good. We went out to dinner, because even though I felt awful, I was still hungry. The last day of our honeymoon, I noticed that my boobs were a little sore......oh shit.<br />
<br />
The will power involved in not running right to a CVS and grabbing a pregnancy test was of the kind required to kick heroin. I didn't want to ruin my honeymoon though, so I waited. (Prior to this, I was a frequent pregnancy test user. If my period was 5 minutes late I was peeing on a stick. I kept EPT in business.)<br />
<br />
Our honeymoon wasn't great anyhow.....but this is already in danger of being a serious post, so I'll leave that alone.<br />
<br />
The very next day after we got home I went out and bought a 3 pack of tests....you know...in case there was a dud.<br />
<br />
Well, for the first time in my life, the first test was a dud. No control line. I sighed in relief. It was a bad test, and that stupid pink positive line was probably a lie. Waiting until I had to pee again was hard. But I persevered....<br />
<br />
The second test was not a dud. Two freaking pink lines. Shit, Shit, Shit.....<br />
<br />
After dinner, my husband was playing some video game in our room. I gave him a hug....and said...."I'm pregnant".<br />
<br />
His response? "What? What?!?"<br />
<br />
I said "I'm pregnant."<br />
<br />
Him? "Fantastic."<br />
<br />
The next several months were horrible. He went through all of the stages of grief I think. <br />
<br />
He asked how I knew I was pregnant....um, two separate pregnancy tests dear. Had I been to a doctor? Well, no....but those testy things are fairly reliable.<br />
<br />
He accused me of getting pregnant on purpose. I put an end to that really quickly. <br />
<br />
He told me I was ruining his life. That I made this decision without him, and he would be pissed at me forever. Great.<br />
<br />
So, not only did I have all sort of pregnancy shit going on, and was already crying at the drop of a hat thanks to my hormones...but I got to listen to this sort of thing at least once a week.<br />
<br />
Side Note: How does a person on birth control find themselves accidentally pregnant you ask? Well, when a person is trying not to have her period on her wedding night, and begins her birth control cycle a week late, and then forgets that she has done so......that's how. Well I wouldn't have to worry about that pesky period for quite a while.<br />
<br />
He went to one doctor's appointment. The 20 week ultrasound. The one where they can tell you what you're having. I had to guilt him into it.<br />
<br />
He didn't care to feel the baby kick. He didn't care about what the midwife had to say. He wouldn't get involved in naming, or nursery planning, or anything else until right before I delivered.<br />
<br />
It was seriously the worst pregnancy ever. Of course I tied my tubes the day after I gave birth to my son. I was absolutely not doing any of this again.<br />
<br />
I handled all of this with one hope. I was counting on my husband instantly falling in love with the little person I was going to hand him. I was relying on him loving his son instantly, and that it would all be ok.<br />
<br />
I was right. That is what happened. He loves his son. <br />
<br />
But he is still an asshole. Almost every day I wonder why I married this man. <br />
<br />
In his past is a long line of women that have just taken care of him. Women that have spoiled him rotten and given him everything he wanted. He seems to have always gotten his way in everything, and if he didn't, he left.<br />
<br />
If time travel were a real thing, I would go back in time and donkey punch my mother-in-law every time she gave in to his tantrums. Every time she spoiled him. Every time she just made his problems go away without him having to deal with them. Donkey punch. <br />
<br />
All of these women are the cause of my misery. He married me. I'm not exactly the "yes dear" type. Though I am the "I'll just fucking do it myself because it's easier than arguing with you" type. Much to my downfall. I realized this waaaaaaayyyyy to late to do any good. Now everything is a fight.<br />
<br />
This post is already long, and not funny, and if I were to gripe about every single aspect of our relationship, and his lack of parenting, and his non-provider attitude.....well it would be a book. Or a diary. Dear Diary.....<br />
<br />
No....I'll stop now. I don't want to leave the man. I do love him. It just gets harder every day to remember why I love him. When I come home from picking the baby up from the sitter, after working 7 hours, and make dinner, clean up from dinner, feed the baby, put the baby to bed, take care of the dogs, fold laundry and then hope I still have time to take a shower so I don't smell quite so bad before I go to bed so I can get up at 5am and do it all over again......and meanwhile he has been playing guitar or Playstation for the last 2 hours.....yeah I'm a little homicidal.<br />
<br />
Some of my friends said the first year of marriage is the hardest. When I was pregnant, a friend said to me "I hope you like him again after you have the baby". Some said that the first year with a new baby is the hardest. We are down 5 months, with 7 to go. I hope he lives through it. I don't look good in orange, and jump suits don't exactly flatter my waistline. pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-30375651886606534442013-10-07T15:33:00.000-04:002013-10-07T15:33:14.018-04:00And She's BackWow. I just realized I haven't written anything in like 5 months. That's how old my son is now, by the way. Of course, the story of his birth is hilarious (well, parts of it) and horrible, and messy. I'll write that one later on for anyone that really wants to read it.<br />
<br />
It's been an interesting 5 months. My husband has almost ended up on a milk carton at least.....weekly. My 11 year old is both a wonderful blessing and a wretched, ragging curse of a pre-teen. My son is the cutest thing that ever screamed his bloody head off at 2am.<br />
<br />
The first....month and a half??....was horrible. The baby was super gassy. Screamed all the time. No happy baby. No quiet, peaceful slumber. Screaming. ALL. THE. TIME. My husband almost died. Every day. <br />
<br />
Then things got better. Now he's a happy, smiley boy that laughs at everything. And the baby is cute too. =)<br />
<br />
I have so much to write about. Breast feeding. Cloth diaper mishaps. Child care. Working from (ha ha ha) home. <br />
<br />
All of that will have to be for another time. I just wanted to say "I'm Back" to the 3 people that have read my stuff (who probably don't anymore). I'll be back, hopefully with something funny.pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-25958996077905577232013-04-30T08:32:00.002-04:002013-04-30T13:16:33.634-04:00How do you feel?<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"How do you feel?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Man, do I hate that question. I'm 38 weeks pregnant. I've been accused of having twins on a number of occasions (by complete strangers). I've been told I've "dropped" by everyone with eyes, and EVERYONE asks me how I'm feeling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Well.....how the fuck do I look like I'm feeling? These bags under my eyes are not a fashion statement. Yes, I know you can see the belly band of my maternity pants. That's because my shirt doesn't cover it anymore. No, I'm not going to buy new shirts. You're lucky I'm even wearing pants today. Fuck off please?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Why yes, I am still pregnant. You're quite observant.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mostly....I feel like a walrus.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture Stolen from Alphamom</span></div>
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<a href="http://alphamom.com/pregnancy-calendar-overview/"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">http://alphamom.com/pregnancy-calendar-overview/</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Side Note: That is by far the awsomest pregnancy calendar ever.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Ok, except maybe this one..... </span><a href="http://www.pregnantchicken.com/pregnant/week-1"><span style="font-size: x-small;">http://www.pregnantchicken.com/pregnant/week-1</span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> )</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm done with people asking me questions. Am I holding a baby? No? Then I haven't popped yet. Thanks for reminding me that I'm still pregnant. I kinda forgot. Guess I should stop snorting lines of coke then, eh? Since I'm still pregnant. Unless you want to hear about my mucous plug....back off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I've been having pretend contractions for 2 weeks now. Which, in my opinion, is just bullshit. They don't quite <em>hurt</em> exactly. But they sure as hell aren't comfortable. Last night they got a little bit stronger. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The day they started, it took me most of the day to realize what was going on. I thought I was just having cramps. I've had cramps for most of this pregnancy, so that wasn't shocking at all. Just another thing for me to get all pissy about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sometime after lunch I realized that these <em>cramps</em> were coming and going. Getting stronger and then subsiding.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">"Holy shit, I'm having contractions."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then comes the best game ever. Do I call my midwife or not? Do I risk being that girl who calls the doc every time anything happens? I called them the week before because my feet suddenly swelled up like giant, foot shaped balloons. The week before I showed up for an appointment I didn't actually have. Did I want to show up for nothing again?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I decided that I wouldn't call until 2pm. If it was still going on at 2:00 I would call. I had an appointment the next day anyway. So of course, it stopped.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Also of course, the next day I got reamed out for not calling. Everything was fine, but I got the whole "if you're concerned, you call us" talk. Ok, Ok....sorry...jeeze.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Anyway.....last night these contractions got a little bit stronger. I text my friend, who just had a baby last week:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "At the risk of ringing the false alarm bell.....I think these contractions are starting to suck a little more."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Her: "How far apart are they?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "No idea. I just realized they were hurting more."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Her: "Well time them, asshole."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This is about the same thing I said to her last week when she actually went into labor. No fake contractions for her. Nope, those are all mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The thing is....I can't really time them. They don't seem to go away. They come on.....and then they just sort of stay. I try to note when they get noticably stronger, but either I'm having 15 minute contractions....(ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)....or I'm just actually crampy with some contracting thrown in for good measure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'd talk about my mucous plug....but really...no one wants to know.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In any case, maybe I'll have a baby later. Wish me luck.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-53045845608888225662013-04-22T09:19:00.003-04:002013-04-22T09:19:41.142-04:00NESTING!!!<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I'm due to have a baby sometime between now and 3 weeks from now. I'm partly like "This CANNOT happen soon enough" and partly like "Just let me get these couple of things done first".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Every day there's some project that needs completing. My baby shower was on Saturday (Thanks everyone!!), so of course on Sunday I had to go to the baby store and buy all the baby crap that I didn't get yet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Side Note: Everyone buys cute crap for baby showers. Little outfit, socks, baby bath robes......I got very limited practical crap. My two pregnant friends (both due in May also, both having boys also....and we're all blondes. We're obviously making a small version of Village of the Damned) got me a big bag of all the little crap you NEED. Diaper rash cream, thermometer, first aid kit, nursing pads....etc. Otherwise, I have tons of little just oh-so-adorable outfits.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm not complaining. I love outfits. But I had a lot to buy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I got almost all of it, without spending a ton of money (depending on who you ask. My husband is amazed at how much crap a little baby needs, and I didn't get anything that I deem stupid. Like a wipe warmer.). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So then I had to take off all the tags and wrappings and such, put away everything that wasn't fabric, and wash ALL of the clothes and blankets and towels and crap.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I put together the changing table and this little bench thing and the bouncer (with much needed and appreciated help from my daughter).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That was after super cleaning my bedroom on Saturday because the baby is going to sleep in there for the first few months and "look at this dust", and "should I wash the curtains?", and "when is the last time we cleaned the ceiling fan?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My mom says to me "oh, someone is nesting".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I wanted to punch her in the throat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">No, I'm not fucking nesting. I'm not overcome with a huge urge to do all these things. They have to get done. How do I change the baby if the changing table is in a box? I have to wash all the clothes and blankets because they smell like chemicals. I have to clean the ceiling fan because it is caked with inches of dust and if I need to turn it on dust is going to fly everywhere all over my baby.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Ok. I'm nesting. Also, it sucks! I don't want to do this. I want to lay down. But everywhere I look is something that really needs to get done before I pop out a kid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-56184319277388099212013-04-08T09:22:00.001-04:002013-04-08T09:22:40.093-04:00Pony Drama<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OK, so for anyone that didn't know, I have horses. I have my old mare whom I just take out on trail rides and my daughter has a pony. My mother keeps her horses at my house. She has 2 horses and a little, useless pony. Also at my house is another horse that belongs to a friend of mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There used to be two little, useless ponies. They were old ponies, that we adopted back when my daughter was little, and they had to go together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Well one of them passed away this fall. It was very sad....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Anyway.....every summer we moved both ponies from my house around the corner to my mother's house to eat the grass in their field all summer long. This saved money and effort because they could live off just the grass and needed nothing else until October-ish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So this year we have found ourselves with an obstacle in the way of our usual plan. The pony that's left can't go to my mother's house by herself. She will be lonely, and make a ruckus and such.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I have a brilliant idea. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Let's get a mini horse."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mom: "For what?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "To keep the pony company. They don't eat much."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mom: "I don't want anything else that I have to feed or pay the bills for. No mini horse."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">OK fine.....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Fast forward to last night...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Mom: "I got that mini horse."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm sorry, what? It was a terrible idea 2 weeks ago, when it was my idea (This is how my mother rolls. Her ideas are excellent. Mine are always terrible.) Now you just have a mini horse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For those who aren't horse savvy, a mini horse is just that. A horse....in miniature. A pony is a different thing all together. There's a difference. (Though based on this one's measurements, it's probably a mini-pony....but I'm getting off topic.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Apparently a friend of ours had one she was looking to be rid of because she's moving. So I called my friend and asked her about the horse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">J: "She's really sweet. My daughter rides her. She picks up her feet nicely. She is really quiet."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So apparently we are the proud new owners of a mini mare, or a female.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I put her in the field with the pony last night to let them get acquainted. There is the typical squealing, and kicking, and establishing of the pecking order. This happens most of the time when you introduce two horses. They'll get over it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now on to this morning. I'm driving down the driveway toward the bus stop, my daughter in the back seat. The mini and the pony are in the field, scratching each others necks. This is a sign of affection (and super cute) and means they're friends now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Oh good, I guess they're friends now."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Kid: "Um....why is the new pony jumping up on her like that?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: (At the mini) "Hey stupid, you know you're a girl right?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Well the mini jumps up on the pony....from behind. (Anyone know where this is going?) Then I see it....the mini's very pronounced penis. She had a dick. Not only were they friends....they were excellent friends.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So I get my kid on the bus just in time and drive back to the barn, dialing the friend that gave us the mini."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "So, I was under the impression that this mini was a mare."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">J: "She is...."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "All except for the dick maybe."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">J: ".........What?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Yeah, she has a penis. She is a he. Now I have to go see if he has balls before I go to work."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Again, for those less horse savvy.....you don't spay a female horse. It's probably ridiculously expensive, if it can be done. Instead you geld, aka neuter, the males. If they are intact, it's a stallion. If they have been clipped, you call it a gelding. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, if this boy has his beans, then he technically could have knocked up our aged pony over night. That's what I need....a baby freaking pony. Cute and all, but not a good thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So the short version of the end of this story finds me calling my dad to ask him to come hold a mini horse while I check him for cojones. (Ha! Spell check doesn't like the word cojones.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">He comes over and holds the mini while I lift up the tail.....nothing to be seen, but I have never actually checked for nuts before. So I look underneath....(have I mentioned that I'm very fat with baby, and this guy's belly is only maybe 24" from the ground.....this wasn't comfortable) nothing to be seen behind the penis where you'd expect them to be. Sigh......So I reach under there and grope him. Empty. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So the good news is that I do not have a potentially pregnant pony.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The bad news is that my day began with sodomizing a horse. This isn't how I expected my Monday to start.</span>pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-28112543597077414092013-04-03T11:56:00.000-04:002013-04-03T11:56:30.609-04:00Meh!!!Ok. That's it. I just want to whine now. <br />
<br />
I don't want to do this anymore. Can I get a court order for eviction of my unborn child? You! Get out!<br />
<br />
Enough all ready. <br />
<br />
I just want all of the following:<br />
<br />
-to tie my shoes without a sharp pain in my crotch when I bend over.<br />
<br />
-to not have constriction marks on my ankles from my socks because my feet are too swollen.<br />
<br />
-to not snore like a lumberjack (sorry, if you happen to be a lumberjack)<br />
<br />
-to be able to roll over in bed without a hoist and pulley system<br />
<br />
-to shave my own unmentionable area (thank you honey, but you're terrible at this)<br />
<br />
-to sleep for more than 1 hour straight<br />
<br />
-to sit for more than 20 minutes without feeling like I've been sitting on a battle axe<br />
<br />
-a fucking glass of wine<br />
<br />
-no more hot flashes<br />
<br />
-to stay up past 9pm like a big girl<br />
<br />
-for gas to just pass through my bowels without getting stuck and causing pain in the region of 8 out of 10<br />
<br />
-to put my rings back on<br />
<br />
-to not lose feeling in my hands if I forget to hold them in just the right position for a couple of minutes<br />
<br />
For everything to just suck less I guess. <br />
I'm sure all pregnant women go through this stage, where they just want it to be over. <br />
Yes, I know that whining about it won't make it go any quicker. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Makes me feel a little better though....</span>pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-49613607138525559392013-03-05T10:11:00.002-05:002013-03-05T10:11:24.126-05:00Rise of the MachinesSo, on the subject of my <em>fabulous</em> pregnancy.....<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
I have an app for that. Shocking right? It's called Baby Bump. (P.S. no one
paid me to write this....or even asked me nicely for that matter.)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It's a cute little app. It has new info every day, including symptoms to
look out for, possible tests I might have done, how the fetus in there is doing
developmentally. That sort of thing.<br />
<o:p></o:p><br />
It is also damn near precognitive.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Last night, while sitting in the waiting area at my daughter's martial arts
class, I feel a pain begin develop in my right ass cheek. I figure I've been
sitting too long, and try to fidget my way into being more comfortable. No
matter what, it still hurt like hell.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I get home, and it's still there. So I take Tylenol. No improvement. I lay
down in bed later in the evening, and it subsides. Ok cool. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Except it's not cool. I only know what it is because I wrenched my back
maybe 6 months ago and the misalignment of my vertebrae pinched my sciatic
nerve, causing a fantastic condition called "sciatica".<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Fuck sciatica.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
It's a deep, dull, constant pain that can reach as far down as your calf if
it's severe. I've only felt it as far down as my knee. This time it's sticking
to my butt and upper thigh. (How many opportunities will I have to type the
phrase "sticking to my butt" without working in the soft core porn
industry?)<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Thanks to my cute little app, I know that it's caused this time around by
the baby being positioned so as to put pressure on the nerve. I know that there
is nothing I can do about it. I also know that there is a chance he might
change positions and (GET THE FUCK OFF IT!!!) then it will go away, but that
worst case scenario I'm stuck with this for the next 2 months-ish.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
My app decides to show me this information this morning. <br />
This is the 3rd
time that it has delivered a particularly helpful nugget of information at just
the right time. It's downright uncanny.<br />
<br />
I have a few theories on how this could be.<br />
<br />
A - My pregnancy is so damn typical that it's following all of the guidelines to the letter, and so <br />
there's nothing odd about any of it.<br />
B - I am subconsciously giving myself these oddball symptoms. I read about how my nose may be <br />
stuffed up because my mucus membrane is expanding (or whatever it said about why my nose is <br />
dripping all over the place) ,and my nose gets runny and I think it was like this the whole time. <br />
(I really don't think this is the case. I saw that it was a symptom and was like "OH MY GOD!! .<br />
That explains it!!)<br />
C - My phone is out to get me. IT is causing these symptoms and then reporting them to me to prove <br />
it's usefulness. Technology is coming to get us folks. <br />
<br />
I have had all the weird pregnancy symptoms you never hear about. Like being stuffed up, varicose veins in places I haven't even told my husband about, increased severity of my carpal tunnel syndrome, and so on. Things I didn't know about at all....until my app told me about them. See my theory unfolding? <br />
<br />
Have any scary apps? <br />
pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-35063954225545012752013-01-16T21:57:00.000-05:002013-01-16T21:57:01.960-05:00Quoting the Princess Bride<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It became clear to me tonight that I may have made a very serious error in my choice of mate. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This is the conversation that took place between my husband and I tonight:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "lol" (ok it was via text....while in different rooms....of the same house)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "What's that from?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me:........................ (picks jaw up off the floor)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "I do not envy you the headache when you awake. But for now, rest well and dream of large women."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "No idea."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: (out loud) WHAT!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Vizzini: Finish him! Finish him your way"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> Fezzik: Oh good, my way. Thank you Vizzini. What's my way?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> Vizzini: Pick up one of those rocks, get behind a boulder. In a few minutes the man </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> in black will come running around the bend. The minute his head is in view</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> HIT IT WITH THE ROCK!!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> Fezzik: My way's not very sportsman like."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "What the hell?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Oh my god. Can I really have married a man who can't quote Princess Bride? Or at least know it when he hears it? I mean, Come On..... the "you killed my father, prepare to die" bit can usually be picked up even by people who haven't seen it 500 or so times. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">How could I have been this stupid? Think of all the lost humor. All the references to iocaine powder that will never be giggled at. If i say "Sleep well, I'll likely kill you in the morning" he won't get it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But worst of all, is this:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Well, you could bring me up some ice cream and we could watch it, since you don't seem to remember it that well."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "Ok, in a little bit."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Oh honey. I set you up so nicely. You could've answered with "as you wish". It would've been epic."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "Why?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Kill me.....</span><br />
pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-69442321528415786362013-01-16T13:19:00.000-05:002013-01-16T13:19:38.567-05:00Oh Just STFU<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The most ridiculous, righteous, most twat-ish thing that I have heard come out of some one's mouth lately is this little gem: "I love being pregnant."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">You what? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now most sane women would think that this was said with a sarcastic air. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">No such luck friends. This psycho was completely serious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">She followed it up with "don't you?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">No, sunshine. I don't. I'm not sure what you think there is to love. Were you bulimic in the past? So now you have a totally excusable reason to barf up your whipped cream and pulled pork binge lunch, and thus you're stoked?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Do you have small boobs and so you are excited that your A cup is going to swell to a near bursting C cup? Fuck the pain, blow up these ta tas!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Let me guess, it's all about the super fast growing hair and nails, and that "pregnancy glow". </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I am as un-stoked about pregnancy as it is possible to be. I spent the first 3 months not-puking. I was just nauseated from week 4 to week 16, without end. It's a very strange feeling to be sick to your stomach and ravenously hungry at the same time. It was to the point where I wondered if I made myself vomit would I maybe feel better. I actually first had a hunch that I was pregnant because I spent 80% of my honeymoon feeling queasy. That's a good time my friends.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I spent most of the first trimester so fatigued that I would come straight home from work, make dinner, and go lay down. I was out cold by like 7:30 most nights. As a result, I spent a lot of time being sedentary, as opposed to the fairly active lifestyle I was used to prior to getting knocked up. The sum of these two aspects of pregnancy is that any muscle I had built dissolved into fat in no time. At this point I think my 10 year old is stronger than I am.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">By far, the best (sarcasm....this is what it looks like) weird pregnancy symptom that I have been blessed with thus far is that due to the swelling in my hands and feet, my carpal tunnel syndrome has elevated from like a level 2 (slightly annoying but not bothering me enough to actually do anything about it) to a level 36 (holy shit, cut off my arms!! I don't need them anymore, cut them off!!!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Every night I wake up because my hands have surpassed numbness and moved on to a burning pain that reaches up past my elbows. There is no going back to sleep. There is nothing to be done about it. I wear wrist braces to bed, and that means I'll only have to get up once or twice because of my hands. I'll get up 2 or 3 more times either because I have to pee, or because husband face sucks to sleep next to. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I told my husband that if this isn't temporary....if it doesn't go back to normal after I pop the kid out....then I am going to have to get the surgery done. I absolutely cannot live like this if I can do anything about it. The only reason I get through it now is because I'm already miserable in so many ways, what's the difference? That, and I know that I can't fix it now. Not with my little parasite in there.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then there's my husband......ugh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I love him, I really do. Having this kid might get him killed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It doesn't help that I have crazy prego hormones, and I'm already chemically imbalanced, as I had to stop taking my anti-anxiety meds. He must have a death wish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In short, no sweetcheeks, I do not <em>love </em>being pregnant. I think you're crazy if you do. Stay away from me and my children you fucking weirdo.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-37746790789141373452013-01-09T10:09:00.000-05:002013-01-09T10:09:10.397-05:00um....so I'm making a testosterone machine<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, if anyone cares to know, I'm having a boy. Yippie?? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Yeah great. I wanted a girl. I know, I know....I have a girl already. I don't have a clue what to do with a boy. Everyone says to me "boys are great. They're so loving and sweet and fun...".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Blah, blah, blah. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Boys are boys. Boys are stupid. I think of all of the things that my husband does that make me grip my forehead and wince while shaking my head in consternation, and think to myself "oh great, now I will get double of this". </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">There is nothing exciting for me about having a boy. Girls are pretty, their clothes are precious, thier activities are endearing, and I am one so I can relate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">A boy? My color choices are blue, and blue. My decor choices are footballs and sailboats. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">No fun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I think of all the things my brother did while we were growing up and I shudder. Breaking things to see how they worked. Throwing himself off of things because it looked like fun. All kinds of cuts, scrapes, burns and stitches. There were road flares involved. :::Shudder:::</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I never did anything like he did. I had too much respect for pain, death and authority (til my teen years, but that's another story). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My daughter is smarter than all that. She doesn't do things that she shouldn't because she knows she shouldn't. Boys don't work that way. At least, not in my experience of boys. They say "hey that looks fun" and jump out of a moving vehicle. They don't think about the moving vehicle part, or the road rash part, or the possibility of death or dismemberment. No. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Because......boys are stupid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Even naming this boy sucks. There aren't any sweet, adorable boy names. I'm not having fun with boy names.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">People have asked me, "Are you upset that it's a boy?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Of course I'm not <em>upset</em>. It's not like I placed an order for a girl and got a boy instead. You don't get a choice in the matter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So instead of a room decorated in purples, I get blues.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Instead of adorable dresses I get cable knit sweaters.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Instead of dress up I get action figures smashing together in battle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Instead of gymnastics and ballet I get football and wrestling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Sigh.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And most unfortunately, instead of an easy choice in schools I get to fight with my husband about public school vs. private school.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So it begins....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-24240088864322250332012-12-12T09:44:00.001-05:002012-12-12T09:44:06.915-05:00Just Shut Up....<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, my darling husband says to me last night:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "So, do you need to take your rings off soon?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Um, what?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "Well, you said that your hands were getting swollen. I figured you would have to </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> take your rings off soon. I don't want them to have to cut the rings off you."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have no idea who "them" is, or why they go around cutting people's rings off their fingers, but at this point I'm having the idea that this is another of husband face's insult-laden bits of stupidity.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Me: "Honey, my hands are getting swollen because I'm pregnant, not because I'm getting </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> fatter. Swelling goes up and down. Don't worry about it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Him: "They do that when you get in a car accident you know. Cut your rings off."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Holy crap, now he's off on his own little tangent. Best to back away slowly now before he remembers he was trying to make another fat joke.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later that evening......</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm about to take a bath. My husband, as horrible as he can be when he opens his mouth, was sweet enough to clean the tub for me after his little bathroom tear-down project.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">In case anyone was unaware (all 3 of you), I'm about 18 weeks pregnant. I'm starting to show. I have also definitely gained 15 lbs. and I'm really unhappy about it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Our bathroom is still in disarray thanks to hubby's little rip out the floor and put in a new one project. They still aren't done. So, while I can use the bathtub, there are tools all over the place and I'm not allowed to get ANY water on the floor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, to avoid the likelihood that I will leave my dirty clothes on the bathroom floor and chance my father-in-law spying my under garments the next day, I got undressed in the bedroom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As I'm taking my socks off (the last article) husband says "I see a pregnant chick". I'm thinking "oh, good job sweetheart, want a cookie?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">He says "I see a pregnant slut".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I do not know where this stuff comes from. I don't know if that was his idea of dirty talk. I don't know if he thinks about these things before they come out of his mouth. I'd like to think he doesn't, so it doesn't look as hopeless for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, instead of entertaining whatever-the-fuck he was up to, I walked away and got in the tub.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">It was glorious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span>pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3540173209211665627.post-47090517100220907302012-11-21T09:10:00.001-05:002012-11-21T09:12:35.542-05:00Turkey and Disappointment<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELk9svP6PkoUUSdpIzy0thwjaUeKJ-a9RlIKn5lOEEe3neDtXf3WElRY8itp3VlEmxabGfMkYE4BTl3PFuTiunANgVN6l17189gdFUQnaTkhJ41AW7eF71C7cwpTGpgDqRU3460VTuNCN/s1600/turkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjELk9svP6PkoUUSdpIzy0thwjaUeKJ-a9RlIKn5lOEEe3neDtXf3WElRY8itp3VlEmxabGfMkYE4BTl3PFuTiunANgVN6l17189gdFUQnaTkhJ41AW7eF71C7cwpTGpgDqRU3460VTuNCN/s1600/turkey.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(picture courtesy of <a href="http://gobbl.us/">http://gobbl.us/</a>)</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have no idea what I was thinking. I have 13 people coming to my house to eat food tomorrow. This is completely ridiculous. Thank GOD that most of Husband's family cancelled. Not that I don't want to see them. Just that four more people would require a <em>third </em>dining table. Two is plenty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">We usually do Thanksgiving at my mother's house. My Aunt and Uncles and Cousin join us, and we all cram around their dining room table, unable to eat without elbowing one another, while we look down at the whelping box full of month old puppies that's right next to the table. They're all cute and stuff, but they shit everywhere and, well, it's not such a nice aroma to go with the stuffing and mashed potatoes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For the last couple of years I've had to bounce between my parents and Husband's parents. Go eat some dinner at 1:00 at his father's girlfriend's house, then go try to eat again at my mother's at 4:00.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In an attempt to consolidate everyone, and make it so I don't have to try to stuff down two separate Thanksgiving dinners, I suggested we celebrate at our house this year. I've done this before, so I really don't know why I thought it was a good idea again. Maybe I have family gathering amnesia, kind of like labor amnesia that women get between kids. You only do it again because you don't really remember how much pain was involved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><strong><u>What that means</u></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><u>Guests:</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My parents</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My brother</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My sister, her boyfriend, their daughter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Our roommate</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My aunt & uncle</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My other uncle</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My grandmother</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">His father</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">His sister & her baby daughter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(For those who are counting, that's 13 guests. This doesn't include myself, husband face, or my daughter)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I bought a 21lb turkey. I actually got the thing for $10 because I'm awesome. It was the largest turkey they had in the store. My mother is determined that 21lbs is not enough to feed 16 people. Maybe she's right. So she bought another 15lb turkey that she will cook at her house and bring over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My father is making the stuffing. He's the stuffing king. Sausage and celery and chicken broth and who the hell knows what else. His stuffing rocks. So he's going to make the stuffing in the morning, stuff his turkey, then bring the rest over to my house so I can stuff my turkey.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm making the mashed potatoes. I also decided today that we should have butternut squash. Because I'm a glutton for punishment.......and squash. Since I'm cooking the turkey (or one of them anyway) I'm probably going to have to do the gravy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My mother is making the green bean casserole. My aunt is bringing the yams and cranberry sauce. My grandmother is bringing the rolls. My father-in-law and sister-in-law are bringing the pie. My sister is bringing soda. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That does it right? Plenty of fucking food? I actually have issues with serving food. I'm always horribly afraid that I haven't made enough. I have a horrible fear of running out of food at a gathering and everyone looking at me like I'm a shitty hostess.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On top of all of the cooking and serving and dishes I will have to do, I have to super clean my house tonight and tomorrow. Having 7 dogs does not make for a consistently clean house. I swear that the only reason my husband puts up with having some kind of major get-together at my house nearly once a month is that I'm going to clean like a champ in preparation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have to go buy a couple of table cloths. My dining room table has been painted on, scratched, glued, and otherwise maimed in a number of ways. My kitchen table has a leaf in it that I intend to make use of. This leaf is maybe 5 shades lighter than the rest of the table due to never, ever using it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I have to figure out where to put the mangy mutts. They make horrible dinner guests.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I've done this before, so I really don't know why I thought it was a good idea again. Maybe I have family gathering amnesia, kind of like labor amnesia that women get between kids. You only do it again because you don't really remember how much pain was involved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Wish me luck.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(Side note: to find the picture above, I googled "retarded turkey". The 13th result was a picture of Eminem. Ah ha ha ha ha)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Update: I checked out the website I stole the picture from. It's actually kinda nifty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />pixichick3293http://www.blogger.com/profile/15460950337613489953noreply@blogger.com0