Friday, July 29, 2011

Pregnancy-Related Band Names, by Jeff

I love my husband so, so much. An email I just received:
Subject: Great pregnancy-related band names
This is all I’ve thought about all morning for some reason.
If only I had talent.
New Age: Bag of Waters
Metal: Colostrum
Gangster Rap: Linea Negra (racist???)
Punk: Nipple Confusion
Blues Rock: Witches Milk
I like "Bag of Waters" (which is a kind of creepy-sounding name for the amniotic sac*); I can picture Jeff with long Sonny Bono hair and a zither.

*P.S. Jazz: Amniotic Sax. Your turn!

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Perineum? I Don't Even Know Him!

This photo becomes relevant later, I promise.
Hi everybody! I’m Dr. Nick!

Sorry. Not another guest blogger. Just me, with Simpsons Tourette’s.

Actually, I think there’s something in the air lately--our air conditioner, which Jeff finally had to install once the temperatures in New York broke my are-you-fucking-kidding-me meter, makes the bedroom smell like mildew, but I also think there might be some nitrous oxide in there, because the other night I decided to ogle my own tumescent naked form in front of the full-length mirror, and promptly started laughing hysterically at the sight of my own butt crack.

(I actually exclaimed, “It’s my crack!” before I broke down completely. If you were wondering what I’ve been doing instead of blogging, there you have it.)

This slap-happy relationship I have with my perineal region will obviously take me far as I prepare for labor. Perineal is a doctor word for privates, by the way, and it’s used a lot in prenatal classes and books, because, and I’m not going to mince words here, that is where shit is going to get real in about 9 weeks And no, I am not talking about the potential for literal shit, though there is that. I am talking about the Dali-esque stretching, melting, and general surrealism that is going to be taking place.

(I was talking to my friend Lin about names recently, and was explaining that while Jeff and I do have a name picked out, we’re keeping it a secret until he’s born. “I kind of feel like The Goonies,” I said. “Like, it’s his time down there, and he doesn’t get a name until he comes out.” Lin thought for a second and said, “Until he comes up in Troy’s bucket! Which is the best euphemism I’ve ever used to describe a vagina!”)

But seriously, think about it: Let’s say you build a ship in a bottle. (I don’t know who does that kind of thing, but it seems wholesome, something to bond over with a meticulous and exceedingly patient parent.) Anyway, let’s say you build your ship, and then you want to get it out. Now, there may be a fancy way to do this without breaking the bottle, but I spent most of my childhood craft time making Spin Art and weaving questionable potholders on plastic looms, so I don’t know it. I would just smash the bottle to smithereens and then try to glue it back. Which is why lately I’ve been eyeing an old bottle of Elmer’s we keep in the pantry next to the garbage bags while I do my kegels.

Speaking of which, women start to get a lot of mixed messages about vagina fitness in the last eight weeks or so of pregnancy. I mean, I was under the impression that you want to try to train it to spring-load back into place as soon as that baby pops out. But then, all of a sudden when you get to the third trimester you start hearing about “perineal massage.” That sounds nice, right? It sounds like a back rub for your taint. BUT NO. “Massage” in this case is a gross misnomer. They should call it the perineal taffy pull instead, because what you are actually supposed to do (oh, and if you’re eating breakfast or something, and you’ve somehow gotten this far, maybe stop for a minute to reflect on the Goonies metaphor and then come back when you’ve finished chewing) is hook your thumbs inside your... Troy’s bucket and pull down until it burns. UNTIL IT BURNS. And then you are supposed to hold that pose for two minutes.

The great news, of course, is that you can have your partner do this for you if you can no longer see or reach past your belly. Because nothing says foreplay like a little vagina tugging.

I’m sorry, this post went off the rails. How did I start with an innocuous Simpsons reference and wind up writing what could pass for S&M erotica?

Oh yes, the crack.

Crack is whack, kids. Listen to Whitney.

Friday, July 22, 2011

TGI...WTF? Sugar, Spice, And Everything Horrifying: Sister Zoe's Guide To Baby-Shaped Shower Cakes

Since the first week after learning of Una’s pregnancy, I have spent ample time online looking at lil’ baby things. Unfortunately, I am poor and cannot buy my nephew the diamond-encrusted pacifier that he so clearly needs, nay, deserves.

But, I am in charge of the baby shower, so that means I can actually shop around for decorations and a cake. Well lemme tell you, baby shower supplies are a goldmine for TGI...WTF. Like whoa.

Though I could talk for a while about the horror of baby shower decorations, lets just skip to the real gems that are the cakes. I’m sure many of you mamas have seen a few of these suckers circulating the shower scene, because they seem to be quite popular.

One trend I seem to be seeing a lot of is something I’d like to call the “Dead baby on a cake”. Now, some of them, like the one below, seem like innocent enough accidents. I’m sure this was supposed to be all precious and it just didn’t occur to anyone that the dessert table would look like an open casket wake for an infant.

But this next one, well, this one feels to me like Mexican baby Jesus died in childbirth and was laid to rest under a scrap of buffalo rawhide (or, you know, an animal that actually populates Mexico). I don’t know why this baby reminds me of dead Jesus, but it does, so that can’t be good, right? Especially when molded out of marzipan.

Now let's continue on to the “We purposefully baked the baby! Ha!” category. This trend has the potential to be even creepier, I think… Though, maybe a few of them, like the first two below, lean more towards a Hansel and Gretel vibe…. unfortunately a better alternative to what follows.

If this photo didn’t show the baby in an actual oven, perhaps it could look like this was just a very fat baby in a onesie. Still, why is everyone tryin’ to eat beh behs? And can someone tell me how these dolls aren’t melting?

I kind of love this one because it looks like the baby itself is giving birth inside the cake. Push, baby, push! Yum.

All right though, the real winners of the “We purposefully baked the baby” category are the ones that look like roasted pigs on platters (notice I’ve eliminated the “Ha!” because there is no trace of attempted whimsy in these guys). Why not just stick an apple in baby’s mouth and call it a day?

I’m glad someone captured the moment below, because it shows exactly why it is creepy to make a cake in the shape of a baby:

Should’ve gone all the way and made it red velvet.

Then there is the special subcategory of creepy baked baby cakes that also probably taste like ass. I’m not sure how “sacrificed demon flesh baby” could even be served. Do you think people ate him with ketchup?

At least give him mini pepperoni irises or something. Geez.

In this next tasty looking masterpiece it seems that baby is being harvested before it reaches full term. What pregnant woman doesn’t want to arrive at her shower to see a life-sized cake of her dead body on a satin platter? How fun! It’s fancy, like a casket!

Her abdomen is so carefully cut open to reveal a wee baby floating around in amniotic fluid! I wonder what flavor Jell-o was used to get such a realistic milky yellow tinged hue… maybe white grape? Really, guys, this looks like the edible adaptation of a bad 70’s prom themed horror movie. What’s worse about this cake is that it seems like it was really fucking hard to make, and it brings to mind those jars of animal fetuses soaking in formaldehyde from 10th grade biology. It’s less appetizing than the awful baby shower candy bar game…

This game isn’t as bad as that toilet paper game where guests let mom know how fat they think she is by guessing how many sheets of toilet paper it’ll take to fit around her belly. At least this game has chocolate, even though it’s trying its hardest to ruin it by showing its likeness to baby shit. I’m not gonna front, I’d secretly eat that melted snickers out of a diaper once all the guests left.

Creepy Honorable Mentions:

Fetus cookies!

Baby Rachel Maddow cupcake topper!

Piñatas in the shape of babies! C’mon, who OK'ed this glaringly obvious party foul? I know, maybe you’re thinking, “ It’s a pull sting piñata! Harmless fun!”



But the real question is this: Would my candy-obsessed sister beat a paper mache baby to a pulp for a torrent of tootsie roll midgees? I’m undecided*. Lets take a vote.

*She totally would, but so would I.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Scenes From a Marriage: Freudian Fetus

The Scene: Abed on a Sunday evening, trying to figure out what part of our future son's anatomy we are prodding in my belly (we literally don't know his ass from his elbow).

Jeff (to fetus): What do you think?
Me: About what?
Jeff: About... everything.
Me: But he doesn't know anything yet. All he knows is the darkness that surrounds him, and occasional glimpses of his penis.
Jeff: Then he knows all there is to know about being a man.

Friday, July 15, 2011

(Interactive!) Texts From My Sister: The Morning Scoop

Zoe: This morning I walked outside to see a man pooping on 21st Street. He picked it up and threw it away, though... sooo that's good?
Me: Oh my God. But yeah, I guess that's as clean as you can be in that scenario. Why not just shit into a bag though?
Zoe: Word. I'll suggest that the next time I see it.


Tuesday, July 12, 2011


With apologies to R.E.M...

[Super serious instrumental intro]

Nightpeeing deserves a quiet night
The dripping faucet in the bathtub, broken years ago
Keep the lights off and keep your eyes half closed
Feeling around blindly reveals the toilet seat is up
Suddenly I realize
I forgot to buy TP at the grocery store
But I’m already sitting down

Nightpeeing deserves a quiet night
I'm not sure all these people understand
My bladder’s like a peanut,
The fear of waking up,
Stuck inside the toilet
I need some fucking paper
These things would be okay
In the light of day

Nightpeeing, I’m up five times a night
September's coming soon
This brick will leave my womb
But what if then it’s worse?
My girl parts will be... bigger
I might need some Depends
White noise rainforest machines
Could not describe nightpeeing

[More cowbell]

P.S. Tomorrow I'll be talking even more about peeing on Aiming Low. I know, you don't have to tell me: I make you so proud.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

My Jessie Spano Moment

I've been wanting to write this post for a long time. Wait, that sounds like I'm about to tell some really juicy story, or admit that I'm really a middle-aged man from Duluth, or that I know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa, or that I got a sweet book deal and am writing this post from my Hamptons cottage while listening to Edith Piaf and banging out the next Catcher in the Rye, only with more Melrose Place references. I'm not, and I don't, and I didn't--although I do think that if Holden Caulfield had been able to watch Billy Campbell's development over seasons one through three he would have learned a few things about becoming a man, and how to release rage through nostril flaring instead of breaking children's records and having violent revenge fantasies about elevator operators.

No, the truth is that I'm just tired. And stressed out.

Actually, the real truth is that I just finished weeping hysterically to the end credits of Working Girl, and that this forced me to confront some things about my life.

Namely, that I can't continue to juggle all of the things I've been juggling.

Spoiler alert: This is NOT an "I'm quitting my blog" post. You can relax.

When I started this blog five and a half years ago, it was a tool for me to hone my writing skills and have an outlet to say what was on my mind to no one in particular. It served both purposes fantastically, for a while. But then people (you!) actually started reading it (the story of how in the hell that happened is here), which was surprising and wonderful and made me feel great.

But, being a perfectionist with an anxiety disorder, it also began causing me stress. Having people read my writing meant I had to keep it up... like, on a regular basis. And, being a perfectionist with an anxiety disorder, I decided that "regular basis" meant "every single day." I lived in fear of you abandoning me if I faltered in my posting schedule.

Obviously, I started to let that slide this year. I stopped posting as regularly (to a perfectionist, this means "only four times a week") in order to focus more energy on the freelance opportunities that were coming my way thanks to the blog. Then I got pregnant. But I didn't slow down. That was a mistake.

Lately I've been feeling like the blog is an obligation as opposed to an outlet, and as a result I feel like I've been half-assing it. Correction: I know I have been. It's not intentional, but after a long, draining day at work and a few hours spent on a piece of writing I'm getting paid for and therefore must prioritize, I don't have anything left. So I piece together scraps or root through my brain for material. And seriously, you guys, after five and half years (practically Blake Lively's entire life!), pickins are
slim. Stories start to get recycled without my even knowing it, so that the blog increasingly resembles one big America's Next Top Model highlights show. You click over here expecting a new episode and it's just ten-second clips of bad weaves and people falling down when they walk.


This is all to say that: A) I want to devote more quality time and energy to the blog and write more posts I feel proud of; and B) I need to take better care of myself and prevent a mental breakdown that would harm both me and the precious cargo I've been lugging around on the subway and up on to tractors.

So I'm telling you now that I'm going to be posting less frequently for a while, at least until my maternity leave starts in September. I'd rather write one awesome post in a week than four okay ones. (Which is not to say I'll only be posting once a week, but I'm going to use that as a minimum goal).

Part of me didn't want to tell you at all (see above re: perfectionism) and hope you wouldn't notice. But I know you are all smartypantses who can count to
at least 10 without the aid of an abacus (or your toes), so that wouldn't fly. Plus, I feel like I owe it to you to be able to admit that I am fucking tired and that I need help. It's like you're the Zack Morris to my Jessie Spano. I'M SO EXCITED, you guys! I'M SO EXCITED! I'M SO... SCARED.

P.S. I wonder if that phrase is copyrighted by the
Saved By The Bell scribes, because if not, that would make the perfect title for the book I'm working on about pregnancy. (And by book, I mean "three paragraphs I saved on my desktop in a file called 'Book.'" I aim high.)

P.P.S. No one asked me to write the current 350-word opus that is "Book." It's just one in a number of side-projects I'm neglecting. Like turning the "nursery" into something less resembling a Salvation Army janitorial closet. 

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Excerpts From My Photo Shoot For Knocked Up And Tractor Pullin' Monthly

 Happy belated 4th!

I'm building a ship in a bottle, people. That crotch seam knows what's up.
I do all my own stunts, like Angelina Jolie.
If you're unknowingly getting sunburned right now, put your hands in the air!
Unborn Child of the Corn.
All photos courtesy of my beloved husband, who, when he wasn't busy eating grilled meats or placing me precariously on farm equipment, built a dam.

Dam, that man is fine. 


Friday, July 1, 2011

Subway Nemesis, Vol. 1

Today I'd like to introduce a crappily finger-painted comic I like to call...

This week, it's this guy:

It's hard to communicate douche-iness with finger-painting, but trust me: Asshat.

He was sitting like so when I waddled up, the ever popular "elephantiasis of the testes" wide-legged stance:

I was so naive.

Surely he would shift to accommodate my fecund heft?

But no.

This is what I should have done:

"Excuse me, sir. Unless your dick is 15 inches long, weighs two pounds, and makes you fart uncontrollably, I believe I have rights to that space."

This is what I did do:

I'm so going to blog about this when I get home. 

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