# of lbs put on with second baby: stopped counting
# hours spent confused by simultaneously barfing and putting on weight: 1,000,000,000,003
# of times regretted eating McDonald’s sundaes: 987
# of reassurances to myself that I cannot eat whatever I want no matter what Daver can do: 48,000
# of regrets that I have married the person who loses 20 lbs after cutting out pop but continues to eat double quarter pounders with cheese: too many to count
# hours spent at gym since being cleared to work out again: 28
# hours spent grumpily hating women who look like twigs who swallowed a watermelon while pregnant: 756
# of White Hen clerks who ask when ‘œmy baby is due:’ 1
# of pants that currently fit: 1
# of times I’ve wanted to buy new pair of pants but have chickened out as I didn’t want to see my new! and improved! size: 8,000,000,000
approx, cost of future tummy tuck: $10,000
approx. cost of future boob job to fix boobs that currently look like an orange stuffed in a tube sock: $4,000
# of times thought of future plastic surgery has calmed me down: too numerous to count
# of feet of current excess skin: 4.6
It’s a good goddamn thing this baby loves me a lot.
I weighed myself this week.
This is kind of a masochistic big deal, considering that I had no earthly idea what kind of poundage I put on with this crotch parasite. After I continued gaining weight WHILE BARFING MY BRAINS OUT, I decided that maybe I just didn’t need to know just how efficient my metabolism could be.
Turns out, you don’t have to look when you get weighed in.
I mean, I gained a bunch with my first and all, but I ate garbage nonstop, so yeah, of course I got fat. Well, this time, I did not. And yet I STILL got fat. I feel loftily sure that I would kick some major ass in a famine, but now, my dimpled white ass needs some major work.
Let’s just say that I have my work cut out for me.
Operation Remove My Fat Ass has begun.
So after I got my good cry out, I decided to get productive and go on a walk as I have not been cleared to lift anything heavier than the baby, a walk would be nice and low impact.
I bundled Cletus the Former Fetus (ed note: Alex) up into my fancy stroller, threw my iPod over my ears to drown out his indignant “I can’t believe you’re not holding me to your breast Slave Woman! Where is my nipple? It’s not in my mouth where it belongs, you bitch!” screams, and began to enjoy the motherfucking scenery.
(as an aside, I can only imagine the horrible mother that my neighbors thought that I must be, letting my child cry like that while I grimly, determinedly walk on. I CLEARLY do not deserve to be a parent.)
As I rounded a corner, I saw the strangest thing. For the *second* time in my life.
There was a dog on a roof.
There was a (motherfucking) dog on the roof of a (motherfucking) house.
He just stood there, staring back at me as thought it was the most normal thing in the world for dogs everywhere to lounge about on tops of houses reaching two stories high.
Having had to run on no appreciable sleep for the past six weeks, I many had problems deciding how to react to the situation.
Do I call the dog? Do I keep walking? Do I want a tuna sandwich? Do I EVEN LIKE TUNA? Slowly but surely, my memory banks began to cross reference the situation: where had I seen this before? A whimsical romantically comedy? Possibly a dream I had when I was a kid? Do I even like tuna sandwiches?
And it dawned on me: several years ago, my neighbor called me outside to bear witness a dog sitting on the roof of a house across the street. A couple of us gathered out there, discussing the dog, who looked as befuddled as we were, unsure as to how it got up and as to how it was going to get back down again.
Somebody needed to do…something. If this was a made-for-TV-movie, a hot-as-hell fireman with twinkly green eyes would rescue the dog and maybe he and I would fall in love. And live happily ever after.
I offered to call the fire department, since my neighbors all seemed more interested in gawking and gaping than the poor pooch who was stuck up on the roof.
Figuring this was my shot at my one true love, I did. They directed me to animal control. Who directed me to the police. Who directed me to public works. Who told me to call the fire department.
I’m pretty sure they all looped to the same person, because I had the same fucking conversation. Either that or it was my own version of Groundhog Day:
Me: “Hi, my name is Becky Sherrick and I live here. My neighbor has a dog on his roof.”
Pick One (fire dept, animal control, police): “What?!?”
Aunt Becky: “I *said* that there is a dog on my neighbors roof. A big one.”
Public Service Official (incredulous): “You’re kidding me.”
PSO (to coworkers): “This lady is calling in a dog on a roof! Bwahahaha!”
Aunt Becky: “Why would I joke? I’m seriously afraid it’s going to jump.”
PSO (to coworkers): Now the dog is suicidal! Bwahahaha!
PSO: “Well, there’s nothing *we* can do about it. Try calling (choose one: fire dept, police, animal control, etc).”
Me:”That’s what (fire dept, police, animal..) said. oh NEVERMIND!”
Finally remembering that the public works in town have absolutely no idea what to do with a (motherfucking) dog on a (motherfucking) roof, I decided that the best course of action was one of complete inaction.
I just kept on walking, the dog and I eyeballing each other warily as Alex wailed for his breast, bitch.
And then, just like that, like a bolt of lighting out of the clear blue sky I remembered that I loathe tuna sandwiches.
What’s the weirdest thing you’ve come across lately?
Dear All Of My Neighbors,
Sorry that I don’t remember all of your names. See, I have this new baby who has somehow sucked every ounce of memory that I have into oblivion.
Oh, so you knew about the baby, did you? Right, right, right. You’ve seen me through the windows. I am sorry about all of the walking around I now do without my shirt on, my granny nursing bra (sexxy, I know) jutting out in front of me like gigantic two milk-filled missiles. But you see here, Neighbors Of Mine, I don’t have much of a choice now. I have this baby who thinks he needs to be constantly attached to my chesticles and nothing, I repeat NOTHING I can do dissuades him.
See, I’m actually considering what I’m doing as a PSA, well, without the announcement part, because I am aware that all of you with houses that surround mine have teenage boys. And if they see what happens when girls have babies, they’ll never give the love without a glove.
Breast Wishes (hehehe),
Your Neighbor With The Knockers
PS. Be grateful that I wear a bra. Have you SEEN those ‘natural’ childbirth books? Those women are ALWAYS topless. AND they rock the full bush.
Dear Makers of Breast Pads,
I’m sending my complaining neighbors to you.
You see here, Breast Pad Manufactures, I cannot use you, despite my actual need for Leakage Control, as every time my baby weeps (i.e the 4.5 seconds/day that I unjustly put him down). Nowhere, and I do mean nowhere on your chipper packaging, complete with serene looking woman holding baby (which I must add, is obviously staged, as no new mother has clear bloodshot free eyes without bags around them. Unless they had a wet nurse or something, and if they did, why would they be buying breast pads?) does it mention the what your pads are made of.
Latex. That’s what’s in them.
Want to know how I know? I got a huge rash all over my freshly milk-filled funbags. It looked as though my breasts had come down with a nasty case of herpes, which at 2 days postpartum is _so_not_appreciated.
Because I was ‘desperate’ and ‘a glutton for punishment’ I tried another brand. Same goddamn symptoms: my breasts felt like they were on fire so I itched the skin clear off of them. It was totally awesome.
By awesome, I mean sucky.
So in addition to adding ‘contains latex’ to your packaging, I am imploring you to please write a letter of apology to my neighbors, who can now clearly see the sweet-ass milk stains and perpetua-hard nipples that otherwise would have been obscured by your product.
VD-Free Since 2003 (and Counting!!!),
Red Boobies Are Not Sexxy
Dear Stomach Flu,
Cleaning Barf Out Of The Darnedest of Places
I am so totally confused.
How did you manage to lose Ben’s shoes?
Seriously, wasn’t he WEARING them?
Taking Responsibility Where You Won’t