Myah, probably not going to sleep much tonight

One day, a long, long time ago, Chuck and I took a walk on his friend's jetty. I was wearing flip-flops. I was drunk. I slid off one of the rocks and practically lost my big toe. Chuck carried me back to his friend's house, where they stitched me up with fishing line.

I told you I was drunk.

When I sobered up and looked at my toe, I fainted—and not because they'd turned me into Frankentoe. But because I have no stomach for body goop. None. Nada. Zip.

You can understand then why Chuck has forbidden me from Googling "scheduled C-section." He can't take anymore "Oh, gross [wretch...wretch] nooooooooooooo"s. He doesn't want me to have any more nightmares. I can't stop myself, of course. It's like telling someone who has a bulbous lump growing on her forehead not to Google "I think I'm dying."

So here I am the night before: well read on every aspect of the operation. And I do mean every. I've also got fond memories of my C-section with Junior, which included me asking the nurse if I was still alive because I couldn't feel my ribcage moving, thanks to the anesthesia.

Talk about freaky.

Having said all that, could you say a little prayer for me? Even if it's a silly, gobblygook prayer and your higher power is your kitchen drain.

Thank you.

But I don't want to know how a turkey feels

Happy Monday. I hope your holiday was all that and then some.

Here in Connecticut, we're digging out from mounds of snow. When I told Junior we got about a foot he asked, "Whose foot?"

Hah!

This is officially The Week of Diddlydoo. I've been a fucking maniac the last few days. I finally made Christmas cookies:



Just in time for...

...no visitors. Well, I guess I could consider Chuck a guest since he leaves his towels on the floor like our house is a goddamn hotel and yours truly is the chambermaid.

(Enjoy those cookies, you peckerhead.)

I packed my hospital bag. I packed Diddlydoo's hospital bag. I've also laundered 500 loads of laundry, bleached the bathroom floor, and last night, in a fit of sheer OMG-I-have-to-organize-something, I tackled Chuck's sock drawer and matched all of his socks.



I can't help it. I'm done working. I'm nesting. I'm freaking out about having a newborn and not remembering what to do with a newborn. My hands are constantly twitching. I'm surprised I didn't cut the cookie batter into a labyrinth of complex geometrical shapes just so I'd have to reassemble them.

What does one do while waiting for a baby?

Relax. I know. I should take lessons from our fat cat and just chill the hell out.



Or I should take the advice of my co-worker—who told me at the Mulletville Corp holiday party that semen ripens the cervix—and boink Chuck's brains out. (Do you know she also told me that if I'm not in the mood we could use a, um, turkey baster?) But that would mean Chuck gets to spend the week—this important, pinnacle week—snacking on hand-crafted cookies, enjoying matched socks and getting laid.

As if! The life!

What about me? What about my needs?

Oh, right. I'm the woman who spent my Sunday night playing with my husband's socks. By choice. My needs as of late are appallingly strange and June Cleaver-ish.

Maybe I should go baste something.

Eeeeeeewwwwwwww.

I'm one sniffle away from a %$#&ing Lifetime movie

Something fishy is going on.

I tear up when I pull into the driveway after work and see our house lit up for Christmas. I’ve been smelling Diddlydoo’s Dreft-fresh onesies and blubbering into them. I swear Judy Garland is channeling "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" straight into my brain because it’s all I hear.

Yes, I do believe that in spite of the discomfort of the watermelon teetering on top of my vagina, I have become Mrs. Merrily Verklempt. (I’m sure my Deep Thoughts at a Gas Station post was an indication I was heading in that direction.)

Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be cause for concern, but I’m the person who likes to mock everything. It’s why I blog. And darnitall my rosy outlook has derailed one a many post I’ve had simmering, including one about this outfit.





Isn’t it silly? Costume Express sent it to me to review. It's called "Velvet Elf Child."

As it made its way to my house, I cackled at the possibilities. Velvet Elf Child sounds like a horror movie. Like Swamp Thing. And how fun to traumatize Junior. I mean really, why have children if you can’t dress them up and use the photos as collateral when they're obnoxious teenagers?

Why?

Except. Chuck and I put Junior in the costume, and it is precious. It's soft and velvety and well, fricken adorable. Even though I'd wondered how much use the costume would actually get, Junior's had the thing on 24-7.

Chuck and I took pictures of our Velvet Elf Child trimming the tree and used the pictures on our Christmas cards. Relatives called in tears, thanking us for the beautiful photos.



We took Velvet Elf Child to a restaurant; people oohed and ahhhed.



We took Velvet Elf Child to another restaurant; people couldn’t stop smiling at him.



We took Velvet Elf Child to visit his grandma at the senior center and holy shit, you’d think we’d brought Baby Jesus himself. (Minor drawback: lots of germy, wrinkly lips wanting to plant one on Junior.)

In the past few weeks, Velvet Elf Child has been all over Connecticut. I never thought we’d get so much mileage from one costume. And it’s the good kind of mileage. Spreading good cheer? I get it.

I really get it.

Crap. Pass me a tissue please?

Maybe people thought I was the clerk's little knocked up girlfriend

Last night, my mother gave me and Chuck a special treat: She babysat so we could have some alone time. Chuck and I planned to split up for a few hours so we could shop for each other, then rendez-vous for dinner and light petting.

I drove to a lovely town in Connecticut, Old Saybrook (incidentally, it's where my brother's ex fiancee and I had our first date one year ago. Sigh).

By 6 p.m. I was done shopping. I pulled into a gas station. I filled up the tank. I got back in the car and put the key into the ignition.

Nothing.

Not even a whir, whir.

I turned the key again. Pumped the gas pedal.

Still nothing.

I called Chuck.

"Can you come get me in Old Saybrook? The car's dead."

"Um. It might take me a while."

"Where are you?"

"Vermont*. You're really hard to buy for."

"What?????"

"Call roadside assistance."

"^%#&*. &**(*#&#. Fine."

I called roadside assistance. They told me it would be about an hour. By that point my toes had gone numb, so I decided to wait inside the station.

I didn't know if the station had a policy about loitering, so I told the chunky 20-something clerk that I was waiting for a jumpstart. He could have cared less. His sidekick, on the other hand—an older woman with a bouffant hairdo—was a lot more attentive.

"Oh, hon! Grab some magazines and a candy bar. Sit down and relax!" She kicked the male clerk's chair out from under him and swung it under my ass, then she parked me in front of the dairy case.

So began my Night at the Gas Station.

It was actually (bizarrely) kind of fun. I got caught up on the latest gossip. Amber Portwood pregnant again? Kelly Osbourne modeling a bikini?



I ate a Twix bar and drank a smoothie. I got to observe a typical evening at a gas station. Did you know that more people bought winter hats than cigarettes? That lots of people bought mega-sized bags of potato chips on their way to parties? That no one cared that a pregnant woman was blocking the dairy case? They'd just wheel me to the side? Oh, and Essence of Beauty is buy two, get one free at CVS. Don't let the clerk stiff you on the coupon!

After an hour, I felt a fond kinship for the gas station clerks and patrons. Like maybe I could have been their pregnant mascot (come on, Nathalie Portman lived at WalMart in Where the Heart Is).

But life had other plans for me. Chuck and the tow truck showed up. The dude got the car started. Chuck and I picked up take-out and drove home.

I'm sure my gas station jubilation is concrete evidence that my life is pathetically boring, but as I head into week 38 of my pregnancy, I'd rather see it as a reminder to take time for myself and to enjoy that time. I mean really, I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a smoothie and uninterrupted reading.

What about you? Amidst the holiday hustle and bustle, have you had an annoying diversion turn surprisingly pleasant?

*Chuck better not have gotten me cheese! He of all people should understand.

The perfect holiday anecdote to waif models

Anthropologie made Christmas shopping so easy this year. As soon as their catalog arrived, I knew just what I wanted.

See, stores like Anthropologie really get average women like myself. They understand I don't want to see their products modeled on underfed beauties. Psshaw. That doesn't help me envision myself wearing it. No, I want to see their products on...

...farm animals!

Take this scarf. I love how it curls behind those big floppy pig's ears. Really elongates the face. I just wish I knew if it came with free grain or not.



And these necklaces? What better way to showcase them than on a smelly creature whose neck resembles an ultra hairy forearm? So regal. I must have them!



And the boots! So slimming. So chique. Seeing the leather against all that shearling helped me realize I could pull off my shearling jumpsuit + cowboy boots look for the holidays. I'll be the talk of the ball.

Thank you, Anthropologie!



P.S. Hasn't Anthropologie's Creative Director ever heard the sheep joke? You know the one...Why do sheep farmers wear rubber boots? (So they can stick a sheep's back legs into them. Prevents them from running away while they're getting screwed...)

P.P.S. Anthropologie did not pay me to write this post. Obviously.

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Slime, snorting and hand towels

This week was supposed to be my last week at work, but I’m going to try to make it one more week. I can put my accrued vacation and sick time towards my unpaid leave. That’s a whole ’nother week on the other side of this baby.

In mom time that's, like, 45 minutes.

Normally I’d say it was worth it, but dragging my pregnant ass to work isn’t the most pleasant experience. I’ve dropped. I waddle. Everyone gawks. Plus, my co-workers must assume I don’t realize I’m nine fucking months pregnant, because they feel the need to stop me in the hall and tell me how big/huge/gigantic I am.

Imagine that. Looking big three weeks from your due date. If I wasn’t afraid of being sued, I’d sit on every one of them. Then I’d moo and buck and snort a lot.

The nice thing is that having my water break at work isn’t scary because it happened with Junior. Though this time I am not going to bring a lone hand towel to the hospital. I’m going to pack a damn bag.

The cute articles in parenting magazines about what women should bring to the hospital crack me up. All you need is: a bathrobe, a pillow, slippers, socks, toiletries, and comfortable pants that won’t dig into your C-section incision.

Yup, that’s right. After a lot of internal and blogternal agonizing, I’m going for the elective C-section. Thank you for all your thoughtful comments on that by the way. If Diddlydoo stays indoors until the week after Christmas, yours truly will be spending New Years Eve at Mulletville Hospital.

Chuck’s going to bring a big, big bottle of champagne. After nine months of not drinking, I’ve been having intimate dreams about that bottle. The delightful, fizzing bubbles. The throat tickle of said bubbles and the ensuing giddiness.

How I need me some giddiness.

I’m giddy just thinking about the giddiness.

Of course, I’m going to breastfeed, so the giddiness is only imaginary.

Don't you just hate when you pop your own giddiness bubble?

Here, I'll do it again: I haven't bought one Christmas present.

And again: I don't have any clue what to get anyone.

Head on over to the Un Mom for more randomness. You'll learn neat things, like how Canadians excrete a natural oil that keeps them lubricated during the harsh winter months (straight up!). By golly, we're going to Canada on our next family vacation just to get slimed by some Canadians.

Yeehaaw!

What can I say? I need a higher chair

Marketing Head: "Mrs. Mullet, can you come into my office?"

Mrs. M: "Er, yes, sir."

Marketing Head: "Your brochures have a lot of typos lately. A lot of gobbily-gook. Are you spell checking before you print?"

Mrs. M: "Er, yes, sir."

Marketing Head: "And the spacing is off. Is your space bar broken or perhaps stuck?"

Mrs. M: "Gee, sir, I can't imagine what the issue might be."

Marketing Head: "Well, I just thought I'd bring it to your attention."

Mrs. M: "Of course, sir. Of course."

Marketing Head: "We have the highest standards here at Mulletville Corp."

Mrs. M: "Of course, sir. Of course."

Marketing Head: "That'll be all for now Mrs. Mullet."

Mrs. M: "Yes, sir."

No one is safe

Even the dolls at the Mulletville flea market have mullets.




Shudder.

Everyone will be getting homemade ornaments this year. K?

I was all set to write a long, descriptive post about my trip to the proctologist (who wouldn't want to read about a pregnant woman's experience getting her buttcheeks spread by a Mullet-sporting doctor?).

Then D&W told me about Jenny McCarthy's book, Belly Laughs: The Naked Truth about Pregnancy and Childbirth, and how McCarthy not only covered hemorrhoids in seat-gripping detail, her story was a million times more horrific than mine.

Damn McCarthy for stealing my thunder.

Now I have nothing left to write about.

Nothing!

Well...

I guess I could write about how tomorrow marks the beginning of my last two weeks at work before I begin my maternity leave. And how I have chosen to take six months of unpaid FMLA leave so I can spend time with Diddlydoo and Junior (isn't Mulletville Corp awesome? Zero days of paid maternity leave. Zero). And how that decision has been keeping me and Chuck awake at night because it seems incredibly irresponsible given Chuck's precarious employment status.

And yet it is the only decision that is right.

We've talked about it. My God, since Diddlydoo was conceived. It's all we've talked about and planned for. We've decided we can survive anything for six months. Chuck can sell his functioning body parts to science and hell, I can finally fulfill my dream of becoming a cocktail waitress while the kids are in bed. We'll shear sheep. Pump gas. We'll make it on love, baby.

It will be an adventure. A gift. An uncharted path.

It will be scary.

But I have wanted to get off this ride of being a full-time working mother for two years.

So here I go.

I have ridden the dark horse. All I can say is, I'm sorry

Many years ago, I attended grad school in Vermont. Chuck was a little under the weather at the time, but he wanted to spend New Year’s Eve with me so he drove from Connecticut to Vermont.

T’aint that sweet?

When he arrived, he didn’t look so hot. He was pasty white and grumpy. He was walking like he’d just dismounted a horse.

What bothered me most was that he wouldn’t sit down. We were celebrating New Year’s Eve at a local bar; everyone wanted to know why my sketchy boyfriend wouldn’t sit down. Why was he standing against the wall looking miserable? Damn him!

I got up and accused Chuck of being anti-social. I accused him of not wanting to sit near me because he didn’t love me. I went and sat back down.

(I may have been wasted at that point.)

Still, the man wouldn’t sit.

Finally he told he me why: He had a hemorrhoid, and it felt like he had a hot poker in his ass. He had just spent six hours in the car. If he didn’t stand, he might die.

At the time I thought, Bah! How much could a hemorrhoid hurt? Those people on TV who needed ointments and medicated pads and toilet paper made of down comforters were a bunch of sissies. I told Chuck as much. Even after he drove home and his nurse of a mother lanced the thing because he was crying from the pain—I still doubted him.

Years later, when Chuck needed surgery for his hiney, I still rolled my eyes when he groaned about the alleged hot poker feeling.

How much could it hurt? Suck it up! Butts can’t hurt.

Right?

Wrong. I have an appointment to see the proctologist in one hour. If he can relieve me from my pain, I will kiss his feet. And Chuck? If I could go back in time, I would not only stand next to you at the bar, I’d cram an ice pack between your cute little buttcheeks and knit a carry case for your surgical donut.

I'm sorry, okay?

Honey?