1. I played concert cello for 10+ years. I toured all over Europe and the States. I was actually quite good, but I quit in college when I decided that smoking reefer took much less effort. Actually, that’s a total lie. I quit because I was tired of it. And honestly? While other people have lamented it loudly, I haven’t looked back once.
2. I spent my entire childhood sickly. I had an ear infection at 2 weeks when I was a newborn and was sick ever since. When I was 14, I had my tonsils out. It was only then when I was introduced to my sweet, sweet friend Vicodin. When the surgeon made the initial cut, the black necrotic tissue trapped within poured out into my mouth.
Heh. Wanna make out?
3. When I was an ickle kid, probably about 3 years old, I got lost in the grocery store. Some clerk found me wandering around and brought me back to the service desk. When the bat-faced old lady asked my name, I told her it was ‘Smurfette.’ She didn’t believe me. I insisted.
Finally, she got so pissed off with me that she got on the PA and announced that they had a small girl at the service desk with ‘pink shoes, pink socks, pink pants, pink shirt, and curly hair.’
I totally dressed myself that day. Because OBVIOUSLY.
4. Although I have successfully given up coffee, alcohol and smoking, I have been immersed in the most irritating and painful addiction to nose spray. I cannot function without it. Dr. Google and I had discussed this at great length and have decided to let things be. I’m all ‘rebound congestion’ and he’s all ‘you’re an addict’ and I’m all like ‘yeah, but what else do I have left to be addicted to?’and he was all ‘ADDICT.’
He’s an asshole.
5. Babies ‘R’ Us and I have always had a horrible relationship. I have always hated it, what with it’s hugely tall shelves and inability to hire anyone with more than 4 or 5 functioning brain cells. Having had what only can be described as ‘premature nesting obsession,’ Dave and I trekked out to EVERY OTHER CONCEIVABLE STORE THAT MIGHT HAVE BABY FURNITURE LIKE A DRESSER OR AN ARMOIRE. We even went to Baby Depot (which is s.c.a.r.y.) and Wicks.
In the end, we were defeated, especially after learning that the internet charges $70+ for shipping furniture, so onward to Babies ‘R’ Us we trudged. And we were in and out within 20 minutes with a changing table, chiffenrobe (whatEVER that is) and a glider. It was un_fucking_real.
And as for me, these days I’m neither here nor there.
Now you may have NOTICED it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘Hollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating
(whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).
Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘Baby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.
This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.
I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course because I happen to look quite like a hippo these days, and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?
The waist fit.
The hips fit.
The calves fit.
Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?
Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.
What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.
So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them.
Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go. Grumbling and grousing the whole way.
I know that I’d mentioned before that I totally didn’t care which flavor crotch parasite I was having. And this was true. But what I neglected to mention is that I am totally terrified of having a baby girl.
My experiences with girls have not always been positive. I don’t really want more girlfriends. I have had bad luck with some of those that I have had. My own mother and I have never been on great terms.
I was equally terrified to find out that Ben was a boy, as I was convinced he was a girl, so my intuition is clearly skewed. I imagined that they would break things, have to own trucks and trains, and pee on the seat. Now that mine is 5, I can honestly tell you, ‘Yes, they do.’ But boys are easy, too. There is no drama.
I was stereotyping my crotch parasite before it was born.
The upside to having a girl is that I would cease to be outnumbered (even all the animals but one are male in my house). Even WHEN the men in my family go to Best Buy, play video games or golf, I stood a chance at having someone to go convince me to buy shoes. And clothes. And we could lunch, like ladies and stuff. Girl clothes are freaking adorable, and I knew how much fun I would have buying them. And I could do hair! And makeup! And have someone to be girly with!
I could impart my knowledge of shaving legs and douching with someone WHO MIGHT CARE, unlike the menfolk with whom I currently live.
But this is just going to have to wait…
…because it’s another boy! I am the Queen of the Sausages, officially.
Now where the fuck is my tiara?
Yes, folks, we saw the twig and crackleberries of our newest son yesterday. He looks happy, healthy and totally willing to show us his willie.
Sounds like he’s taking after his father, already.
Oh, and by the by Dave?
That Britney shirt is waiting.