Open Mouth, Insert Fat, Stanky Foot

I’m not sure what it is about pregnancy that makes some people lose their internal filters. At no other time in a person’s life would someone come up to you and comment about your weight or give you random, unsolicited assvice talking about their vaginal delivery, circa 1982, in which they endured fifteen stitches and still can’t jog without peeing themselves to this day. Why?? WHY?! Listen, I know I look like I’m about to birth a calf any day now. I don’t need you, Mrs. Random Lady at Safeway Who Weighs over Three Hundred Pounds to tsk tsk me as I struggle uncomfortably to pick up the Star Magazine that I dropped and say, “Oh goodness…must be any day now for you!” To which I patiently reply, “Well, not quite, my due date isn’t until October 25th.” “WOW! That’s a big baby!” I should have retorted with something equally as insane, a la, “Oh my yourself! That’s a big FUPA* you’re packing!” But as I’m in a fog most of the time these days, I merely smiled weakly and muttered something nonsensical about going to find the toilet paper aisle. Why do the clever responses only come to me afterward?!?  Also, I’ve noticed that the median age group of these people seems to range from 45 – 50ish and above. People my own age are much cooler about the whole thing and fellow 30-somethings have not said such dickheadish things.

Other retorts I should have used, but that have come to me too late:

* “Well, I’m pregnant – what’s your excuse?” – To the size-related commenters, always coming from older men/women who haven’t missed a meal in, oh, decades.

* “I really don’t like hearing about your vagina” – To the middle-aged women who overshare their delivery stories. (I’m okay with hearing about some stories – it’s when they get graphic that I shudder internally, especially when it’s from people I barely know who haven’t birthed since the 50’s and have no idea that their stories are frightening the bejesus out of me. And also, I don’t want to walk around all day at work knowing that much information about your bottom system.  Thanks.)

* “No, it’s not twins – I’ve had seven ultrasounds and would know by now.  Yes, I’m sure.  No, seriously – IT’S NOT FUCKING TWINS you fuckface!” -  Because I’ve actually had to repeat myself a few times to some people who ask if I’m having twins…and then continue to ask – “Are you sure there’s only one?  Really?  Your doctor checked?”

* “I know people didn’t breastfeed when you were pregnant, 35 years ago.  Please shut up about why you think I should preserve my figure and not breastfeed, because you didn’t do it and it looks like you have gnarled, tree root boobs anyway.  Lot of good that did you.”  – This to the woman who cornered me in the bathroom and went off on a boob tangent for several minutes, almost like she was justifying her decision that she made 20 years ago.

I know at the heart of the matter lies the fact that most people just want to reach out and find some way to connect, and maybe seeing a pregnant woman reminds them of those good ol’ days, when they were expecting their first baby.   But for God’s sake, I wish they’d think first, speak later.

*FUPA = Fat Upper P*ssy Area

FUPA in full effect

Doghouse

Dear Apollo,

Thank you for pooping on the kitchen floor.  Because the house wasn’t fragrant enough, you beast.  I understand you’re going through some issues right now.  The new baby furniture is upsetting you, and you keep growling at that sunbeam on the wall.  And you seem to think the stroller is going to eat you.  But really…I thought we were beyond passive-aggressive dumps.

Sincerely,
Your mama

Sensitivity (not the Ralph Tresvant song)

I found out that the world’s oldest dog died the other day.  Saw a picture of her on Yahoo News and she had a little sweater and socks on.  “She favored sweaters because she was sensitive to the cold” said her owners.  Socks!  Little purple socks and a red sweater!  And you know what I did?  Started bawling like a baby.  At work.  Luckily I escaped to the bathroom and hid before anyone could see me and think I’ve lost my mind.  But you know what?  I think it’s too late.

I’d heard all the rumors, and know all the baby books say it happens, but nothing prepared me for the giant bitch slap of crazy pregnancy hormones.  See, I’ve always been what my brother teasingly refers to as, “sensitive” – as in, “Yeah, we worried about telling you that Harley got eaten by a coyote…because you’re the emotionally fragile one.”   Hmmm…thanks?

*Harley Brown, sassy overweight family Pomeranian who was seized cruelly in the night by a rogue coyote last month.

I like to think that I keep my highs and lows in check thanks to exercise and Zoloft, but even the most vigilant can get caught up in cloud of depression, especially if you’ve dealt with it for many years.  I have a tumultuous hormonal history (I believe this comes from my mother’s side of the family…many depressed, pale, drinking Irish folk on that side and most of them are on some sort of anti-depressant/anti-anxiety combo mix) and have been dealing with this for years.  One week you’re doing great; taking your meds and going on about your business, the next you could be curled up in a ball sobbing under a black cloud of despair, triggered because there’s no more cheese left in the fridge and isn’t it so sad that there are people who can’t even afford cheese, and why are you crying anyway?!  Or  you can’t listen to your R&B shuffle on iPod without crying, because you keep thinking of poor Luther Vandross and how lonely he must have felt when he died, and it is so upsetting to think about him being sad, lonely and polishing off buckets of KFC in one sitting, and what if that happens to you one day?  See, there I go, getting all worked up.

So, fast forward to me getting knocked up.  The hormones have only added to an already touchy situation.  Anything death-related gets me so upset.  A few months ago I was riding MAX, and sitting directly across from me was a very large older black gentleman.  He was huge.  His rolls had rolls.  And I sat there, and thought about my Dad, and how he takes blood pressure medication and cholesterol medication but still smokes menthol cigs, and we’ve tried to get him to stop, because black men are prone to heart disease!   Dad is by no means overweight, but one day he could keel over from heart issues, and what if he died before he got a chance to meet his newest grandbaby?  As I sat there rolling past Pioneer Square, and the fragrant street children got on the train, and this 400 pound man sat facing me, my eyes started tearing up.  By the time I’d reached my exit and walked down to meet Joe I was in full-on sobbing mode and all I could choke out in shuddering cries was, “This man!  Buh-buh-black!  [sob, gasp, snort] Was really huge!  [snot and tears rolling down my cheeks] What if  Dad dies?!  And what if our baby never gets to meet him?”    Poor Joe just held me and said it would be fine.

I’ve had a lot of those kinds of moments.  I’ve learned to stay away from any TLC shows and keep my browsing of local news stations (always the most depressing!) to a minimum.   Today I’m feeling a little blue; not sure why but writing about it makes me feel better.  Sigh.  I’m blaming it on the hormones.

Pardon me…I’m just baking a baby

Okay.  So I’m the laziest blogger to ever have blogged a blog.  I am also supposed to be sharing this creative endeavor with another person (the husband!) who has yet to write a post…I don’t blame him, though.  In addition to the day-to-day tasks of dealing with our little ball of lard and each of us working for The Man, we’re also about to birth a bebe in eight weeks.  Holy balls.  Eight weeks!  This baby is coming out of me somehow and holy Jesus Christ on the cross what are we doing?!?  I think I’m just freaking out because of all the things I still need to take care of – you know, important things*, like cleaning the tubs out and washing all the floors.  I want to grab Mr. Clean Magic Erasers (best things EVER!) and scrub the baseboards.  And the toilets!  My God, you should see them!  This baby can’t be born in a house where the toilets may have errant pubs laying around!  The pantry looks like hell!  So disorganized!  And then there’s the homeless man, Ed, who appears to have set up camp in our bedroom closet (at least, we think it’s a homeless man in there – a shapeless pile of clothes is hiding God knows what and I’m too afraid to do more than poke at it with a hanger.)

*Side note – apparently this is what’s referred to as the “nesting” stage – the inexplicable desire to scrub and clean any and all things right before baby makes their appearance.  The only problem is, I have no energy to do the above chores.

I swore to myself this would never happen (oh blissful, ignorant pre-pregnancy me!  Silly girl with her crazy thoughts!) but I have full-on Let.Myself.GO.  I barely have the energy to shave anymore (and I’m talking legs, don’t even get me started on nethers, I’m like Helen Keller down there – just flying blind!) let alone clean anything.  I also wanted to be a hot, pregnant mom before I got pregnant, and sadly I feel this is not the case.  Is it vain and selfish to admit this?  Yes, probably.  I should blame US Weekly for putting all those pictures of hot celebrity moms in their magazines.  I thought I could be Super Pregnant Woman, but this little girl has given me a run for my money, healthwise, and I’m finding that I have to save energy for the important things.

So, to make a long story short, I am trying to make checking in on the blog one of the Important Things, as I feel it will be good for my sanity and well-being.  Also, I have SO much more to share…we’ve only just begun, bitches!

My Friend Bones

Everyone in their life deserves a best, best friend.  The kind of friend that will drive you around town in 87 Celebrity named Suckondeez (as in, “Suck on Deez Nuts”), a total beater of a car, to drive to Costco to pick up supplies for school and try to kidnap a feral cat on the way.  The kind of friend who, on Halloween night, will pull over on the side of Macadam and help you look for the purse that you lost when you stopped to pee on your way to the Banana Joe’s costume contest.  The kind of friend that you can laugh with, cry with, tell them anything and know that they won’t judge you and will love you no matter what.  Before the boyfriends and the husbands, before the pets and before the kids, there is hopefully a best, best friend.  Mine?  Brooke, who I love and adore, and if it weren’t for U of O, we never would have met.  She lived in the apartment upstairs and we bonded over a love of cheese and trouble.  Like the time I was assaulted by a Slurpee…the time we snuck into El Torito for Cinco de Mayo…the time we went to Disneyland and danced our way through the Disneyland parade dressed in crushed red velvet capes.  I love this girl, and if it weren’t for her I would have never met Joe.   To be continued…

Cracktastic

Take one part English bulldog, one part banshee, one part pony on Ritalin and one part junkyard dog – what do you get?   Answer – Little Lord Apollo/Snarffles McNards, the light of our life and reason for the name of this blog.  I am about to to go straight-up Ike Turner on our special needs dog.   (Just kidding, PETA).  But seriously…this dog, although being the cutest thing I’ve seen in a long time, is enough to make me want to hit the bottle.  Or hit him with a bottle.  In less than a year of ownership, he has, in no particular order:

-Peed and shat multiple times on our hardwood floors and carpet, making our downstairs smell like a Shell station bathroom

-Pulled the stuffing out of our loveseat

-Destroyed the loveseat cover that we bought to disguise the aforementioned abuse

-Chewed through the wiring on the automatic garage door

-Eaten four pairs of shoes, a jacket, a baseball mitt, golf shoes, countless socks,  several pairs of panties (not that big a deal; just an excuse to buy more but nonetheless, still disturbing to walk upstairs and see him sprawled like a beast with an innocent pink ribbon hanging from his mouth)

-Gnawed through the carpeting and down to the floorboards on three of our stairs

-Let’s see, what else…made me cry, throw things and threaten to sell him to Gypsies or at least put an ad on Craigslist out of sheer frustration

This list could go on and on, but I’ll spare the details…for now.  Let this be a reminder to those people who decide that gee whiz, it’d be awfully fun to get a large breed of dog right after you get married, you know – for practice on raising kids – and to also think that the only thing you’d need to get you through is a copy of “Bulldogs for Dummies” from the local PetCo and a heart of gold.  Ha!

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