The Tuesday After That

How Infuriating!

2009-11-16T12:57:00.000-08:00

So there's this writer who has a blog. I found her a while back while doing some research on mold. Anyway, she writes these cool funny stories. They're fiction, she says. The problem is she gets me all sucked in and then never finishes a damn story-ever! Why do I bother? Why do I invest my time in front of the computer on her roads to nowhere? I'm going to go back to watching Susan Boyle on YouTube. She makes me so emotional. I cry every time she sings about how her life has killed her dreams. God, I could play that clip over and over.

Who does this so-called writer think she is? Does she think because she's cranking out some offspring that we don't have a right to a fucking conclusion once in a while? I mean, for Pete's sake. I dreamed a dream of time gone by. What kind of sadistic person draws you in like that only to toss you aside like a nugget dropped by my cat, Sassy?

She Lives

2009-11-16T04:53:00.000-08:00

Five Weeks To Go...But Possibly Six

Here I am in the final stage of pregnancy. I am 34 weeks today. (I think I miscounted a while back.) I have to admit that other people's pregnancy blogs kind of bore the pants of me, so I really don't expect you to do the YMCA in my honor or something. Still, around here...the excitement is brewing.

I am more focused on what taking care of a baby will be like than delivery. Delivery will happen. It'll be gross. It'll be painful for a while, but it's kind of like Sarah Palin speech. Eventually it's over and you can forget it all over a few drinks.

I bought my first nursing tank top yesterday. I had never inspected one of these. Those of you with the janskies to fill one should totally buy one. Even if your not pregnant or nursing. HI-larious. They are like peek-a-boo thongs for your boobs. I just get snapping and unsnapping the straps to reveal nipples that can be seen from space. Snap, unsnap. Snap. Okay, unsnap. Thanksgiving is going to be so much fun this year. I'm guaranteed as much pie as I want with that bargaining chip in my arsenal.

Sooooo sorry!

2009-10-27T05:34:00.000-07:00

So...31 weeks pregnant. Feeling creative in the sense that I have a room to prepare for the boy. Out of the loop on here, because I am wondering how I might make money after the baby is between 4 and 6 months old. Superficial reasons, certainly, when I have such kind followers on here-waiting to see a finished story for once.

Don't hate me because I'm fruitful. Be back as soon as I can! -Christine

Where Is She?!

2009-09-25T05:09:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note to say I haven't totally abandoned you. Rest assured that I feel adequate guilt for not writing lately. I am simply trying to prepare my life for the newest member of our family who will arrive at the end of the year. I feel that if I get really organized now he will never know that his parents were any other way.

Thicket to Paradise: Children can earn their keep in the garden | SavannahNow.com

2009-08-28T05:06:00.001-07:00

Thicket to Paradise: Children can earn their keep in the garden | SavannahNow.com

Shared via AddThis

"Get outside and deadhead my black-eyed susans, or I
will give you something to Tweet about!"

Christine's Y'all Are Stupid Section

2009-08-26T10:43:00.000-07:00

I feel that to call someone stupid used to be a kinder, gentler, more congenial way of getting one's point across. Somewhere along the way, however, it became uglier than many of the four-letter words I know and love. So, I'm going to bring it back.

Mellencamp or Bust, Part 5,The Home Depoo

2009-08-25T05:11:00.000-07:00

"Can't we just go to a rest stop this once, Kar?" Doug asked. He already knew the answer though and began watching for an exit that might have a shopping center with a superstore of some sort. Karen didn't do rest stops. "Never, ever," she said.

Karen was a shy pooper and couldn't stand the thought of going to one of those crowded places just off the highway. A woman from Nebraska might hear her poot. A little boy from Kentucky might escape his mother's grasp and peer up into Karen's stall. "You saw that Dateline," Karen said."Sweetie, they can't all have toilet cams!" Doug whined.

Karen was obviously growing quite uncomfortable. She'd settle for a Staples, she told Doug. "Even a PetSmart will do," she said biting her lip. The thought of squatting behind a pallet of Eukanuba was growing more appealing with every intestinal spasm. Her preference, of course, would have been a Target, Walmart, or other box store. They were held in much higher esteem by the particular thirty-three year old. Maybe it was the fact that the restrooms were always in some far off corner of the store. Less chance of interlopers and the grand possibility of tissue seat covers.

"Up here," Karen told Doug. "Hurry." Doug had pulled into a shopping center with a Home Depot. "Just stop here!" she cried. "The ride hasn't come to a complete stop yet,"Doug said with mock concern. Karen spilled from the car like a clown at a circus. "You alright?" he asked. "Fuck your mother," she replied and raced in the direction of the nearest automatic door.

The plastic soled flats that Karen was wearing clapped down the Electrical aisle and were heard over by the washing machines where their stride was broken momentarily by an orange apron. Before its wearer could make eye contact with Karen, she plowed on toward the linoleum samples where a man was unrolling a revolting brick pattern. "Bathroom?"she panted.

"Kitchen," his wife said. "We thought it would look nice in our kitchen." Karen didn't have time to explain to the woman why arson would be a more tasteful option or get the directions she so desired. Her only response came in the form of a chuff that escaped her rear end unexpectedly. Mortification would even have to wait while she navigated the precarious cabinetry displays: Oak, cherry, pickled pine, white, and then, finally, she saw the sign.

The skirt of the female icon nearly blew up as Karen flew through the door and into the first over-sized stall. Was there anyone else in there? Maybe, but it didn't matter. It couldn't matter.
Karen shoving her fingers into her ears and singing, "Jackie gonna be a football star..." while she did her business was about all she could do.

Upon completing her mission and a few more songs Karen washed her hands and began waving them in front of the automated paper towel dispenser. Am I going to have to do the YMCA for this bitch, she wondered. "Thank you!" she said out loud when at last it spit out a section.

"You're welcome, dear," said a soft voice. Karen turned to see an elderly lady dressed head to toe in orange. "And you sure have a lovely voice," she added.

Mellencamp or Bust, Part 4,

2009-08-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

Karen couldn't wait for it to start feeling like a vacation. Her nerves were still fried from lack of sleep when they pulled into a gas station to fill up just outside Galena. Doug went inside to pay and she took that opportunity to frisk the pockets of his jacket for antacid. "Rats." Karen was too sleepy to considering running into the convenience store not fifteen feet away from where she was sitting. "Burn, baby, burn," she muttered.

Doug on the other hand had the morning demeanor of a exploding bottle of pop. "Here's your coffee with extra vanilla, Karen-Bo-Baren," he said waving the steaming cup in front of her face. This and acid reflux was no way to start the day. "I also got you a Cosmo. Feel free to read me my horoscope and give me quizzes whenever you like," Doug told her. "You don't know me," echoed out of her coffee cup which was masking most of her face. It was obvious to even the Homer Simpson floor mats Doug gifted himself for his birthday that year that he most certainly did.

"There's a shit ton of traffic, and it's only 4:37A.M.," Karen complained. Vacationing families in station wagons and mini-vans were on all sides. Karen raised her head from her cup just enough to see her own sentiments mirrored in what appeared to be a four-year-old riding with his parents and two siblings in the lane next to them. He was almost shrouded by a Sponge Bob sun shield, but it was evident that he was sound asleep and drooling against the car window.

"Don't worry. We are making great time," Mr. Sunshine replied. If Doug was a super-hero he'd be "Travel Man". Actually his joy didn't come from the travel as much as the opportunity to acquire miniature toiletries before and during the trip. They had four drawers in their bathroom filled with stuff that he'd scarfed from hotels, motels, and the occasional stewardess. He lathered over miniature sewing kits and tiny bottles of Scope. A pack of those paper-like soap leaves nearly brought him to orgasm when they stayed at the Ritz in Chicago last year. His ecstasy that morning was no doubt due to the tiny bars of Dial that he'd be adding to his collection while in Tybee.

"Where are we staying again?" Doug asked. "This place near the beach," Karen mumbled. "Yeah, but what's it called," Doug demanded. "It's called the Starfish or something like that," Karen said. "I have the confirmation in my purse. Why?"

"Is their a continental breakfast included?" Doug asked. "Why? You collecting miniature cereal boxes too?" Karen responded.

"Um, no. I was just wondering that's all. Fuck you very much," Doug said in the most insulted tone he could muster. Some miniature Coco Puffs sure would be da bomb, he thought. A tiny box of his childhood favorite, Sugar Smacks, was just too much to hope for, he told himself.

As the sun came up, Karen noticed two boys in the SUV in front of them with one of those paddles with signs that you flash at other cars. Karen used to have one that she wore out on the way to her grandparents' house in Peoria growing up. She'd never been on the other side of one though. "Hi, Hot Lips!" she read from the blond kid on the right. Karen chose to bury her face in the Cosmo Doug bought her.

"Ahhh, young love," Doug sighed. Karen looked up again only to read, "You're my type, Toots," from the freckled redhead on the left. She rolled her eyes and went back to her article. Did their parents know they were soliciting a woman in the car behind them, she wondered? Oh, who was she kidding. It was like road kill. She had to look. "Foxy Lady!" the sign read this time. That was it. She was fighting back. Up went the headline from the Cosmo article that read, "When Your Hoo-Ha's Burning." The paddle dropped. Peace at last.

2009-08-17T04:52:00.000-07:00

My husband and I recently learned we're expecting a baby boy. Well if that wasn't a cat whisker up the nose. We were expecting a girl! Naive? Maybe, but every parenting fantasy up until that point involved a little curly-haired diva carrying some doll by the hair. Oh, alright. It also involved the dress-capades. Who wouldn't want to go ga-ga with all of those cute girl clothes out there?

Our friends, in an attempt to free us from any lingering desires for a little girl, have taken to throwing their own little princesses under the bus.
"My daughter is not the daughter I ordered," a coworker confided in my husband the other day. "And you can only dress them for a couple of months before they start having firm opinions on the matter." Okay, I get it. Daughters aren't all equal, but the girl bashing continued.

"My son is kind, gentle, and considerate," our hairdresser mooned. "My daughter is a rapscallion." I've linked the word to a definition on Wikipedia for those of you who, like me, might be wondering what the fuck that really means. Even with the definition I am picturing Jodie Foster in the movie Maverick and I'm not sure that's what she really meant.

Over the past couple weeks we've become the cork board for the daughter issues of everyone we know. While diagnosing my neighbor Tom's tomato leaf mold over the back fence I learned that his daughter was, in fact, a whore. "I mean to tell you she wears things that make Irene and I want to take her down to the port and throw her on a container to Bangkok," he said. "Geez," I said.
"Geez is right," Irene chimed in, but the girl's father wasn't finished.

"A boy is cake. Sienna has clogged up our HVAC with so many F-bombs we have a repairman on stand-by 24 hours a day," the venting father explained. "We mark the god damn time by how many spins her head makes in a day."

The leaf mold was hardly a concern by that point. Little beads of sweat had formed on Tom's head. I saw my puzzled expression reflected back in all of them as I tried to come up with some sort of response.

Irene was lost in a hydrangea bloom muttering something about the hot curler incident of 2002. I couldn't take it any longer. I faked a menstrual cramp in order to get away, but then I remembered I'm pregnant. "Did I say cramp?" I laughed. "I meant bee sting. Gotta run. Need some ice. Tom, Irene, excuse me."

La Gout Raffine

2009-08-13T05:07:00.000-07:00

I went to see the movie Julie & Julia last night, and I loved it. With any form of creative inspiration comes a certain amount of self-loathing. It arrives, usually, with thoughts like these:

Why didn't I think of that?
She's thirty in this. I'm thirty-four. My life is going nowhere.
Why didn't I think of that?
I could have never boiled the lobster. That's why nobody is making a movie about my blog.
I'm thirty-four?!

If I take anything from the movie, and the story of Julia Child, it is that success comes slow-even for the greats. You've got to have goals. You've got to give yourself specific projects to complete. You've got to narrow your vision and stop dabbling on this that and the other. You've got to look deep into the body cavity of a chicken and see the universe (Just like they did with the cat's collar in Men In Black.) and all of its potential.

We Interrupt This Story To Pay Tribute To A Fallen Cinematic Hero

2009-08-07T06:56:00.000-07:00

John Hughes has died, and I can't help thinking God could have just subscribed to Netflixs like the rest of us.

This is hardly the first tribute to Hughes, and it will certainly not be the last. I think the best way to honor this 80's filmmaker is not by a film recap, but by sharing how he affected the individual. I remember, after I saw The Breakfast Club, I took a long look at the guys in my class. There was not one Judd Nelson among them. "Well, who the hell am I going to seduce in the janitor's closet now?" I wondered. "Frick."

This was just one of the grand expectations that John Hughes placed in my head and tender teenage heart.

Ferris Bueller set off a firestorm of unquenched desires.

He had the wit of a thirty-something, and this isn't commonly found in the high school pickings. (Although, the bodily functions on the keyboard probably could've been found with a little effort on my part.)
If a guy were to have asked me to play hookie with him, what are the chances that he would've brought me to an art museum? A four-star restaurant? The Sausage King of Newark, Delaware might have brought me to Pizza Hut - but only if we went dutch.
Let's talk about the parade for a sec. I knew not one guy who would have gotten the whole city to dance to Twist and Shout, let alone anything made popular by Wayne Newton?! No guy I went to high school recalled Central Park in fall or how I tore my dress. It was a mess, I confess.

John Hughes made me want to meet a guy like that though. He made me want to have an older female confident that worked in a record store. I saw John Cusack standing by the wall in Sixteen Candles and thought, "I bet if I were to go to California and find that actor, I'd have a shot with him."

Of course, with the grand expectations came the feeling that there were others out there feeling the same way. We were never alone with a John Hughes on the screen.

Mellencamp or Bust, Part 3, Packing For Heat

2009-08-05T04:47:00.000-07:00

"I don't think that shirt you bought that says 'Cougar Hunter' means what you think it means," Doug gently told Karen as they began packing.

She didn't hear him or pretended not to anyway. It was nearly time for their week long vacation to begin, and nothing was going to spoil her mood, she decided. Not even her husband putting contact lens solution into a travel size bottle and spilling most of it on their bed spread.

"I am just saying," Doug continued, "you might look like you're trolling for-" Suddenly a giant orange bottle of SPF 50 was hovering an inch in front of his nose. "More packing, less commentary," his wife of seven years told him. A staccato of boxers hit Doug in the face before he could discourage the Florida Gators beach towel she was planning to bring to Dawg country. Karen didn't give a rip about college football. She probably bought it at the Galena mall because she liked the colors. How could she know that Georgia fans were some of the most loyal on the college football circuit. It made no difference if they attended the school or not.

Doug once heard, from his friend Todd who was from Dawsonville, Georgia, of a Florida Gator fan who entered a porta-john at the Bulldog stadium in Athens. While he was in there, Dawg fans started rocking it back and forth. Before long, they had created such a momentum that they lost control of the thing, and, according to Todd, "There was blue shit water everywar!"

Karen was in travel mode. She had a stack of tour books and brochures that she'd picked up from Triple A, Breath-Rites, Advil, three tooth brushes still in their boxes, and a very large pair of binoculars neatly placed in her bag. "They are for the dolphin tour," she said when she saw Doug's accusatory glance. "How many times do I have to tell you; I'm not a stalker!"

Doug returned his attention to the envelope from last month's electric bill in his hand. On it there was a detailed list, written by Karen, of what they'd need. "Undies? Check. T-shirts? Check. That silky number I bought you last Chritmas but you haven't worn once? Check." Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, everything was squished into their two large suitcases. Anything that didn't fit, like Karen's face mask, snorkel, and flippers, was put into reusable shopping bags.

It was around eleven o'clock at night when Doug and Karen finished loading their 1999 Mazda Protege, and they couldn't wait to climb into bed. They'd be up again at 3 to start their drive. Karen cuddled up to Doug the way she always did when she knew she'd been a bit of a control freak. "I'm Mr. Turner," Doug said with his back facing Karen. "I just wanted you to know, because your hand seems to think I'm Mr. Mellencamp."

Mellencamp Or Bust - Making Plans

2009-08-03T13:59:00.000-07:00

"I don't see what the big deal is, Karen?" Doug said. They were bellied up to the tiny bar at the Galena Cafe. Karen thought it would be a fitting place to begin planning their trip.

"It's not a big deal, Doug," Karen said gripping the crooked stem of her martini glass a little harder. "I just want to make sure we're both on the same page. We haven't taken a vacation this far from home in quite a while, and I would hate for either one of us to be disappointed. That's all."

Doug took a sip of his gin and tonic. This was so like Karen, he thought. With the right cocktail straw she could suck the joy out of anything. "You don't think I know, Kar, but I know," Doug clipped. "What?" Karen asked sure that Doug didn't know a god damn thing at that moment. "I know that you think you're going to meet Mr. John Cougar Mellencamp at some tiki hut on the beach, and he's going to sign his name on your ass."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Doug. No I don't. I would never ask John Mellencamp to write on my ass." On the back of my neck with his tongue, maybe, Karen thought. "Second of all, Mister Smarty-Fuckin' Pants, you better believe that I wouldn't spend eighteen hours in the car based solely on the slim chance that I might run into some teenage crush! Like I'm some kind of stalker."

"You have a map in your purse, don't you?" Doug said. "Shut up. I do not!" Karen snapped back. Doug called the bartender over and ordered them another round. "I bet you do," he said. "You've got a map with coordinates and everything," he teased. "You're a tard," Karen said.

Mellencamp or Bust-A Fictional Story About Holding On To Sixteen As Long As You Can

2009-08-03T05:26:00.000-07:00

Karen and Doug live in Galena, Illinois. Last May, at Karen's mom and dad's house, they started talking about where they might like to take their vacation that summer.

Karen and Doug were going through the Sunday paper at the kitchen table. There were a few coupons for a steak house that Karen managed to sneak into her purse for Doug's birthday the following week. A small television on the kitchen counter was permanently tuned to the Food Network, and just then a twangy lady's voice called out from the speakers, "Hey y'all!"

"That Paula Deen is a heck of a gal, Karen's mom, Peg, told her. "She can make fudge out of peanut butter and cheese you know." "Velveeta isn't cheese, mother,"Karen said. "And why do you even watch those cooking shows? It's not like you cook."

Peg stopped washing a large casserole dish from lunch and raised her nose in the air. "Well, you don't," Karen stressed. Her mother snapped a dish towel with an ear of corn cross-stitched on it against Karen's leg. "I most certainly do, young lady. Just last week I made beef burgundy for your father, and it was delicious."

Was there really any point for Karen to mention the crock pot and onion soup mix. Yes, there was. "Mom, that doesn't count. Real onions don't come in an envelope," she laughed. "Although, I thought they did until I was fourteen," she said to Doug under her breath.

"God damn it, Karen Marie," Peg said shaking a bottle labeled EVOO in Karen's direction. I have cooked for this family for thirty-five years. Tell her, Bob." Karen's dad, Bob, was polishing his leather Hush Puppies over a page of the classifieds that he'd placed on the floor and was not inclined to enter the conversation. "I said tell her, Bobbie. Tell her the god damn beef burgundy melted in your mouth." "It melted in my mouth," Bob said. "See!" Peg said giving the bottle a final shake before putting it in a cabinet.

The only sound in the kitchen for the next minute or so was the TV and newspaper being shuffled around. Suddenly, Peg shouted, "You and Doug should go to Savannah for your vacation! You can bring me back Paula's autograph! Wouldn't that be fun?" she said.

Karen looked at her mom whose eyes had grown all moist at the idea that a Food Network chef's autograph might one day hang on her very own fridgedaire. Full on tears would have been too much. Peg needed to play her hand very carefully. "You know," she said. "I heard that John Cougar somebody has a house on the beach near there."

"He dropped the Cougar, Mom. Really? He lives there?" Karen asked. Doug looked up and saw his wife's face begin to turn the color of White Zinfandel. The deal was sealed. "He really lives there?" Karen asked again. Peg ignored Karen's question. She knew it was better to let her daughter stew over this new revelation like the beef burgundy.

Karen loved John Mellencamp. She had about a dozen posters and magazine photos of him in her room growing up. When she was sixteen she even got a an iron-on t-shirt made with the singer's face surrounded by gold glitter on it. Beneath his face were the words, "MAKE IT HURT SO GOOD," spelled out in the same gold glitter.

When Karen's dad saw it, he made her take it off. "Decent people don't wear stuff like that," he explained to his tearful angry daughter. Karen had sealed that memory in her brain by proceeding to tell her father that his giant tie would choke a goat. He grounded her for three weeks. Although, her dad never did wear that tie again, and Karen counted that as a point on her score card.

Picking Up Good Vibrations

2009-08-02T09:54:00.000-07:00

Mindy was half way to motherhood and had done very little reading on the subject. The small amount of literature she'd managed to thumb through made the future sound like a slurry of pain and bodily functions. Who wanted to think about that?

On a sunny day in July Mindy decided that she would stop watching babies crown on cable. She'd had enough. There would be no more talk of centimeters, dilation, gestation, or even lactation for a while.

Instead, Mindy headed for a store that she'd driven by many times but never entered. It was called Moon, June, Spoon and had everything an over-the-top baby nursery would require. A shop assistant welcomed her and asked if she needed help, but Mindy preferred to wander silently as if in the Smithsonian or Goodwill.

"Six hundred and fifty dollars!" Mindy whispered to herself while holding a price tag for some frilly crib bedding. Mindy had never dreamed that they would cost so much. She wouldn't spend that much on a set for she and Keith's queen-sized bed. Six hundred and fifty dollars could get her to Vegas! It could get her to Paris if she watched for airline sales. Could that much be required to get her baby to sleep, she wondered.

Mindy was a little ashamed of her next thought. A six-foot tall stuffed giraffe met the shocked mom-to-be's gaze with wise plastic eyes. He knew. Even the two-hundred and fifty dollar giant fake giraffe knew that Mindy would much rather spend that kind of money on highlights for the next two years. Would she be able to go mousy-brown for what would feel like an eternity in order to create a wicked-awesome nursery?

As the question began whittling its way through her brain, the string of bells on the store's front door jingled. Through the door came a woman in her sixties wearing workout attire made popular by Jane Fonda in the 80's. "Do you have those vibrating chairs for babies," she asked nearly out of breath.

"Do you mean swings?" the shop assistant asked. "No, no," the woman replied taking a cursory inventory of the store. "I need a one of those vibrating chairs, and I'm not going to one of those stupid box stores for babies either," she added.

Mindy was hidden over by the Christening gowns. She couldn't believe how demanding this woman was being and over such an obscure item.

"Well, do you have anything that vibrates?" the now exasperated woman wanted to know. Mindy rolled her eyes and began digging through her purse for some Rolaids. She was sure there was half a roll drifting amongst the receipts, crackers, and, "Hold the phone," Mindy called out. She appeared from behind a rack of exquisite designer bibs with something that would surely help the woman in her dire quest. It was a business card that Keith had given to her, last month, as a joke, before leaving town for a sales conference.

"They have all kinds here," Mindy told the woman and handed her dog-eared card. "Make sure you get the kind with the restraints," Mindy explained. "You know, for safety."

"Thank you so much!" the woman said and tucked the card in a hot pink fanny pack secured to her waist. She didn't have her reading glasses with her, but it was obvious she couldn't wait to jump on Mindy's tip.

Somehow, though, Mindy thought the workout diva's appreciation might wain when she found the extensive selection of vibrating items that store had to offer. Mindy turned back to the giraffe. He knew.

Everyone Remain Calm

2009-07-30T05:16:00.000-07:00

"I just wanted to see a movie," Carol told her husband. A police officer had her by the elbow and was leaning on the casing to their front door.

"Sir, are you aware that your wife decided not to wear a bra this evening" the policeman asked Mike.

Mike eyed Carol with a look normally reserved for questionable meatloaf. "Why no, officer. I would have never allowed her to leave the house had I known. I believe a woman's breasts should always be restrained for the safety of those around her," Mike continued.

Carol rolled her eyes and tugged at her arm, but the policeman tightened his grip. "Sir, in your wife's delicate condition, we're going to have to request that you keep a shorter leash on her. Titties are dangerous, and we can't have a pair like these just strolling into any ol' picture show they want."

"I hope there was no trouble," Mike told the officer. He was such an ass-kisser Carol thought. It was really no big deal. Honestly. A few people chose to leave the theater. That's all.

Summer Bizz

2009-07-29T04:59:00.000-07:00

Bees like to gather on the front of their hive to shoot the shit, especially when it's hot. Seeing them gather in mass like this can put fear into some, but I'm assured that in southern parts of the country this is very normal. It's a sort of block party for the very small. You see, it gets hot inside there. They've got no AC. Some of the bees fan the heat away, but others prefer to listen to some tunes.

Inside I have found my own bliss. There are few things more satisfying then pouring honey into a plastic bear. It doesn't require the many steps of traditional canning methods. It's just you, the bear, and some honey-a very merry threesome.

Preparing For Labor One Sting At A Time

2009-07-27T11:06:00.000-07:00

Bee stings are a part of keeping bees. If you're not allergic, they're really no big deal. It does, however, piss you off when one of the little bitches decides to sting you for no good reason.

Well, maybe the winged whore had a reason. Last night my husband and I stole some of her honey. Girls, can I get a high five about how we act when a guy steals our honey?

There's no doubt that, if we had a barb coming out of our ass, we'd damn sure use it. Honeybees also seem to have the memory to go with the scorn. Her angry buzzes the day after our honey harvest were no doubt telling me she was "from the block" and going to kick my scrawny white ass.

Ignoring her did no good, so I'll admit it. I threw the first punch. I went against the Mr. Miyagi school of thought and lost my composure. I would have busted out the crane kick too, but there wasn't time. All of her sisters had their little drum things on sticks between there front legs going "chooka, chooka, chooka, chooka". The few guys in the colony were heard yelling things like, "Man, that bitch is crazy! Run girl! Run!"

So, I got tagged on the back of the neck. I flicked the stinger out and rubbed a piece of ice over it for a few seconds. No big woop.

What the little defender of her tribe failed to understand was that I was on my way to turn on my soaker hose. I wanted them to have a drink on this hot day. Nevermind the other water sources in the yard! Maybe I still smelled like honey from cleaning my equipment. Maybe she was just looking to die a painful death. Who knows?

Friggin' Friday

2009-07-24T18:02:00.000-07:00

Friday nights are harder than they used to be. "Thank God It's Friday, " some sun-kissed twenty-something Tweets to the universe, and I am thinking is, "This crab cake isn't very crabby. Really? All you have is alcohol and coke products? No juice? No virgin something with an umbrella, for crying out loud!? I am creating life here. Can't you wring out the garnishes and make me something tasty?

Friday used to mean something. We make fun of mall rats (who aren't even allowed to be at the mall without someone over seventeen now), but they knew how to have a Friday night. Nobody does Friday better than the 14-17 crowd, because it's fucking all they have.
Excitement is everywhere. There's Joey over there leaving Surf Side Fries in his Bugle Boys. That girl with the mushroom hair is here with her baggy pants that you hate but will be buying at
the Limited before the night is over. Oh shit! There is Tom Wankerson. You should have never let him french you by the water fountain at homecoming. No time for class, better dive into the Children's Place before he sees you.

"What is your malfunction bitch? I can ride the slide if I want to! There's no sign with an age limit. Whatever!"

Before you know it, you are cooling your jets in Osaka over some reflective unicorn stickers and incense, but hold the phone! "Marcy! Oh my god! I haven't seen you since- oh wait. You're not Marcy. Sorry. Nice purse."

You wrap that shit up with another lap of the arcade and a cherry slushy, and you've got yourself one fuckin' Friday. You're golden. Anything you do on Saturday will be worthless unless it's trying to relive Friday on a Pac-Man phone beside your bed.

We kept our expectations low and we were happy! There was no, "Do you think this egg roll is going to affect my post-pregnancy ass?" There was no, "Artificial color and flavor will rot my unborn child's brain. Better just have water."
It was full carb, full fat, full caffeine, and we felt good about every aerosol-sealed minuted of it!

I'm going to watch "I didn't know I was pregnant."

Women Announcers Were Once Feared-But Why?

2009-07-16T05:16:00.000-07:00

Minnie was not happy about the opportunity that she was given to sell a quality dish soap. She hadn't slept with every producer on the lot for that. She hadn't walked into the office of the most successful agent in Hollywood wearing only her smile to sell green detergent. Oh no. They could find some other desperate actress for that. "You're soaking in it? What the fuck does that really mean?" Minnie wondered.

Good Times With Spirits

2009-07-15T05:01:00.000-07:00

"I'm not friggin' moving it!" Jan told Kip. They had been playing with it all night with questionable results.

"Darn it, Jan," Kip replied in his low angry voice. "It's not moving by itself, I can tell you that for sure."

Jan looked at Kip and wondered what made her write "You're a really special guy" in his annual. She should have written "Have a nice summer" and left it at that. Now here she was with a real heel who wouldn't take her need to contact Ginger Rogers seriously.

"I mean, for fuck's sake, Kip" Jan cried. "Prom is in less than two weeks! How the hell am I going teach your stiff ass to dance without her? Now concentrate you v-neck wearing bitch!"

Hold These For A Sec

2009-07-11T04:56:00.000-07:00

If ever you feel like your bra is constricting your breathing, it is a good idea to move up a size. If, at the end of a long work day, your nipples look like the mashed nose of a bank robber beneath a stocking, it's a good idea to move up a size.

Before becoming pregnant, most women look at larger boobs like the free gift that comes with a department store cosmetic purchase. "It's bonus time," we think. No more need to shade in a cleavage with a blush brush. We will have the real thing.There is a point, however, when we discover that our "free gift" is nothing more than grandma's pink lipstick that cracks off our face like lead paint.
Our instant boobs are not the enjoyable accessory that we thought they'd be. They are sore, heavy, sweaty, and resemble something from a plumbing supply store. They are surely not something that I am happy to carry around.

The misery of my two new friends had me thinking the other evening, while airing them out on the couch to my husband's amusement. "There should be some kind of cooling bra, " I told him. "Some water or gel filled thing," I continued. Of course, this was just one of those many things that flow through my mind during a commercial break or Nascar race. There couldn't really be something out there like that, and how could I even make one? I could buy some Capri Suns, toss them in the fridge, get some elastic, but wait! Click here and see what I found!

Can you believe it? I can't stop thinking about after the baby. You know those days when you're at the park, and you want a cocktail? Hello! Pour a Margarita in your bra, stick it in the freezer, and strap it on before hitting the monkey bars!

Christie Mellor had the right idea. She wrote The Three-Martini Playdate which I gave to a friend a few years back. I wonder if she still has it? I should've read it before giving it to her, but I wasn't even considering a baby back then.

It could be useful at many functions. Think of those holidays with the in-laws.

Yeah, but...

2009-07-08T12:10:00.000-07:00

"I'm really sorry to hear that," I wanted to say. "But back to my vagina." I was certainly aware that my doctor's bad experience with a weimaraner, cordless drill, or oscillating fan was none of my business. Neither were the countless other dangers that I imagined might keep her out of the office for the next four or five months. Still, I found myself on the phone with the practice's receptionist wondering what injury might justify my bojango being pawned off to whatever other physician was available at the time.

This is where, as human beings with souls and fear of universal retribution, we check ourselves. We say, "My doctor could be really sick. It's selfish for me to want to keep the number of people who see the south lawn in the single digits. This person could be going through a very serious medical crisis. My modesty and the birth of my first and only child hardly compare."

"So how do I know who will deliver my baby?" I ask with the innocence of the Virgin Mary on a donkey. You see my mind had already left my doctor's woes. I was wondering why, if both of her arms were say lost in an angry game of Twister, she wouldn't be able to, at the very least, supervise my baby's delivery with a flashlight in her mouth? I'd find that very reassuring.

Plus I've got a memory foam pillow we could put on the ground just in case one of those "on-call" guys takes too many dips in the slippery hand sanitizer. My doctor only need be the familiar eyes and voice on the other side of a blue curtain. Arms aren't even necessary.

"You will have a chance to meet each of the other doctors in the practice," the receptionist told me. Really? I can meet them, I thought. By "meet" she meant show up shake hands and put my feet in the stirrups. I've seen City Slickers, okay. I don't have faith that some want-to-be cowboy will shoot me in my head if I suffer too much though. My own doctor minus arms might find it a challenge, but she'd get the job done!

"The fact that she's still going to be out of the office must mean arms aren't the problem," my husband said. He was right. I grabbed a nearby cat to cuddle and said, "Yeah, but."

Toe Trouble Part 1

2009-06-24T13:57:00.000-07:00

Francine didn't blame Harold for breaking his pinkie toe and ruining their vacation. She blamed the toe itself.

"I mean who on earth would hold a grudge against an appendage," Francine's friend, Dot, asked her over a stiff Side Car. "I mean for Pete's sake, what did that toe ever do to you?" One might expect this sort of scorn for a finger, or maybe a cauliflower ear gnarled up over years of wrestling matches, but a toe?

What indeed, Francine thought as she took a slow sip of her tart cocktail. What hadn't it done?
That toe had been a thorn in Francine's side from the very start of things with Harold. It was a digit whose very existence made Francine ask the man she loved to wear one sock to bed for their entire marriage. It inspired meetings with their pastor, a physical altercation with a Triple A representative, and even the death of Francine's prized Siamese Fighting Fish, LaVerne.

Most recently, the smallest toe on Harold's right foot had caused their long-overdue vacation to be torn apart in a horrifying way like, well, like Francine's prized Siamese Fighting Fish, LaVerne. LaVerne had been found by their four-year-old Peak-A-Poo, Bitsy flopping around by the coffee table. It appeared that the dog had tried to push the mangled fish under the carpet-adding insult to injury. This same brutality is what Francine now wished upon the toe.

Quotes From The Road Which I Might Use

2009-06-24T04:58:00.001-07:00

"There's nothing worse than heading to boot camp in the summer, except maybe being pregnant. I mean really pregnant."

-The Woman Two Seats Over On The Plane

"I am missing out on a cold beer for this? Next time you want to wish me a Happy Father's Day, just yell it through the wall or tell me on the way to the bathroom."

-Dad to his son after not making it into an air show because the base was closed

"We won't be able to take off for a while, because the airport's computer system is an older model and it crashed." -Birmingham

"*#!?*#!?*#!?*#!?*#!?*#!?*#!?*#!?"

-Husband after breaking his little toe on leg of mother-in-law's sofa