I had to go to the doctor yesterday. Routine stuff, really. No new diagnoses, no new ailments, nothing of the sort, except that I still give good (neck) spasms. Like, the doctor seemed impressed by my neck spasms. Apparently, I excel at neck spasms. Who knew?
But as he was examining me, he noticed my chin.
You’re thinking, what, you give good chin, too, Aunt Becky? What does that even mean?
To which I would say a resounding, “probably not” and “I don’t know.”
I’ve been stuck with this rash on my chin for the past couple of weeks. On any given day, I was convinced it was typhoid, a tick bite, malaria, diphtheria, the bubonic plague, tetanus, or cat scratch fever. To be honest, with everything else that’s been going on, I’ve sorta back-burnered my chin. I mean, I’m pregnant with a FOOD BABY! Everything else comes secondary!
But my doctor looked at my chin and decided it was a “rash.” He didn’t share the TYPE of rash, so I’m assuming it’s face herpes. I mean, that’s the logical guess, right?
If it’s face herpes, it means that my face has been sleeping around on me. So much so that I now have a new strain of herpes that grows on your chin. It’s like evolution, on my face! Really, it’s a win.
Except, I guess, if you’re my chin.
We’re doing a blog carnival over at Mushroom Printing. You should join us.
Also: my friend Amy sells Scentsy, if you like that sorta stuff (and I do).
I knew it was bound to happen.
I popped out my crotch parasites well before most of my friends had steady boyfriends (birth control failure FTW!) because I like to win at life. See also: failed birth control.
Once I’d popped out the first crotch parasite, I realized that what I really wanted to do was to pop out more. I’m not saying my logic was failproof or anything (see also: birth control) but I knew I wanted my first kid to have siblings. What can I say? I’m a sentimentalist.
But I wanted the kid to have siblings, and luckily, he did. Five years later, out popped Alex, and two years after that came Amelia. Which means I have a fuck of a lot of kids, but alas, I digress.
That meant, of course, that I spent my twenties in Fug-Ville. While my friends were out being cute and sexy, I ranged in size from “Is she fat or pregnant” to “that girl looks like Grimace… only not purple.” Postpartum thyroid issues piled even MORE pounds onto my already chunky frame, which lasted approximately until their first birthday. Which = two years of Grimace per baby.
What I’m SAYING, Pranksters, is that I’m a sexy, sexy pregnant woman. You can call me Pregnasaurus Bex if you’d like. I don’t mind.
So now that I’ve gotten done with crotch parasites, I’m returning to the “OMG CUTE CLOTHES” and “UNDERWEAR THAT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A SHIP’S SAIL” walk of life. Just in time to watch my friends obsess about every little pregnancy symptom or complaint.
I swear to you, Pranksters, everyone I know is gestating. Their Facebook profiles all show blurby ultrasound images of fetuses (fetii?) and updates include all the stats from each doctor’s appointment. It makes me GLAD I’m no longer gestating since my stats would look like:
Weight: *breaks scale*
Measuring: 40 weeks pregnant at 10 weeks.
What Baby Is Doing: Some various state of fruit.
Pretty much, you’d be bored even MORE shitless than you are by my mediocre blog. (my autocorrect wants to change “shitless” to “shirtless” which is actually awesomer.)
However, I feel kinda left out. I mean, I’d rather suck on an icepick than get knocked up again, but still, I want the opportunity to complain about my swollen feet and ginormous rack. Unless I have a Love Child, it ain’t happening.
Luckily, I’m crafty. I came up with a BETTER solution.
Pranksters, let me be the first to announce that I’m having a food baby. His name is Frank.
He’s gonna be a soccer player.
Also: who wants to throw me a baby shower? I can TOTALLY feel him kicking!
Back when I had a regular cell phone, I was all, “Blackberry’s look like talking wallets,” and mocked anyone who ever used one. Because HELLO, WHO TALKS INTO A WALLET? (answer: crazy people, that’s who). Then, I realized I, too, could talk into a wallet, and for the very briefest of time, considered buying a Blackberry, until I realized that I, too, would look like a crazy person.
So I held onto my Dumb Phone and occasionally made calls on it. More often, though, I played Bejeweled.
It wasn’t until Daver decided he needed a second generation iPhone that I realized that I, too, needed one. I wasn’t precisely sure WHY I needed one, but figured I could probably play Bejeweled on a bigger screen (I had a hot pink Razr) which meant that I was most certainly WINNING.
(apologies to Charlie Sheen)
And, if I was stretching, I could say that I was using this Smart Phone to tell me when I’d gone into labor with my daughter – with whom I was heavily pregnant. It was kind of EYE OF THE TIGER.
When I got it home, I marveled at it’s shininess. After all, my Razr was approximately 76372 years old and the screen was half-busted in places, so seeing such a purdy, clean screen was like music to my eyeballs. I promptly imported my email so I could never, ever miss a message about “Increasing Y0ur Pen1$ size,” because, well, obviously: I needed a bigger dick. I was only 787 quintillion million hundred months pregnant, after all.
I waited patiently for the day in which my Smart Phone would tell me I was in labor. I wanted that crotch parasite OUT of me once and for all. And not once, did my Smart Phone say, “Hey, Fuckface, you’re in labor.”
(turns out, I had to be induced, so perhaps my rant is misplaced)
After she was born, though, I hoped that my Smart Phone would be able to say, “Hey Fuckface, the baby’s crying because she’s hungry. Or tired. Or poopy. Or all three.” It didn’t. Not once.
My Smart Phone was officially on notice.
Later, I’d hoped that in addition to being an Angry Birds/Twitter Machine, it would also be able to tell me when I’d forgotten to do something. Like print out boarding passes or pick up my kids from school. Turns out? You have to ENTER that data into some stupid calendar thingy, which is DECIDEDLY not the same as it being SMART.
Then, one day, I tested the fucker out. Was it smart? Was it dumb? Was it a redesigned wallet phone?
So I screamed into it (one never knows if phones are as deaf as my children): “CURE CANCER, MOTHERFUCKER.”
And you know what? It didn’t. It just sat there, blankly, my face reflecting back at me through the smudges on the screen. It didn’t say, “does not compute,” or “you’re an asshole,” or even, “cure it your damn self, Aunt Becky.” No. It just looked at me dumbly, like I hadn’t just given it a task or something.
I’m getting even, though. I’m changing it’s name from “Smart Phone,” to “Angry Birds Machine.”
I suggest you do the same, Pranksters.