Friday, February 24, 2012

If It's Yellow Let it Mellow, and Other Tips for Lasting Romance

Oh, Lord. Every time I write a half-assed rap or poem, I end up falling into a stress K-hole and not posting for weeks, thus leaving my questionable rhymes front and center.

In my defense, though, I haven't had a lot to say--at least, not that you would want to read. For instance, here's a choice Scenes From a Marriage that transpired a few nights ago:

I'm lying in bed. Jeff enters (the ROOM, for clarity's sake, and despite having given birth five months ago that's not a euphemism for my vagina).

Jeff: I peed on your pee.
Me: I forgot to flush?
Jeff: I assumed it was so as not to wake the baby.
Me: Yes. Right. Let's say that's the reason, and not that I simply lack the brainpower to remember how to hide my own waste.

Classic, right? You're so glad I shared.

Anyway.

While I was gone, I wrote a few things you might want to read. Like:

This essay on why the Oscars are a big let-down, even for an awards show ho like me.

Or

This Aiming Low post about how I discovered that Jeff wants to have sex with every Asian woman in the world, regardless of attractiveness. (Line starts here, ladies!)

Also, I have a major announcement. It is so MAJ. Sister Zoe, your favorite vomit eradicator and denim vest aficionado, will be answering all your burning questions in a new advice column that she's testing out as she prepares to drop her knowledge in her friend Kate's real life start-up magazine (golf clap!)


Now, some of you may be asking, But Una, what ever became of Hot Probs? To which I say, Heather, my love, there's a new sheriff in town. Because the old one has no time now that she has to re-train herself to flush the toilet.

Email your questions (no question is too dumb or too personal, and she will respect your anonymity) to AskSisterZoe@gmail.com.



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Tuesday, February 14, 2012

A Valentine For My Son


Roses are red 
Violets are blue
Sunflowers are yellow
Just like your poo

Mommy is tired
Daddy is, too
But we both find solace
With a corkscrew

Sleep is a state
That you tend to eschew
Good thing you're cute
Or we might return you


Love, Mom

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Thursday, February 9, 2012

Things That Go Bitch in the Night


Some people get night sweats.

Some people get night terrors.

Me? I get Night Bitch.


In the past, this condition expressed itself when Jeff needed to go to the hospital at 3 am, or when he tried to move me after I'd fallen asleep on the couch.

That was nothing. Acute Night Bitch sets in when you have a baby.

The first few weeks I was so sleep-deprived that I didn't get bitchy, I just wept. It was pathetic: me, in my giant postpartum "diaper" constructed from a jumbo sanitary napkin and mesh underpants, wailing along with my crying infant.

But now I enjoy a good three to four hours of sleep at a stretch--TRY NOT TO BE JEALOUS--and so when I'm awakened I am less sad and more petulant.

"The baby's awake," Jeff will whisper.

Swimming up from the depths of my new-mom slumber, I cannot comprehend this sentence. "NO HE'S NOT. HE CAN'T BE AWAKE. I JUST PUT HIM DOWN." (I use my angry Judge Judy voice.)

"Well, sorry, he is..."

"BAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. FUCK. FUUUUUUUUUUUCK. FUCK EVERYTHING."

"I think he's hungry."

"NO, HE'S NOT. YOU'RE BEING AN ASSHOLE."

Last night, I decided to add a little Naomi Campbell flair to the proceedings by repeatedly smashing my phone into the nightstand. In my defense, I was tired and I couldn't read the screen and so I thought it was broken. And to fix it, I thought maybe trying to hit it against something really hard might help.

As you might imagine, for Jeff I am only a MILF in the sense that he would like to fire me.


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Thursday, February 2, 2012

Playboy Bunnies and 7 Other Sweet Postpartum Jams

The first months of parenthood are rough, y'all, I'm not gonna lie. They're like that stress dream where it's the first day of school and you're two hours late, you can't find your classroom, you're suddenly naked as you round the corner into the ninth-grade lockers, and someone's given you a helpless infant that you're expected to keep alive without instructions. (Incidentally, instead of giving middle-schoolers eggs to take care of for a week, they should get greased-up watermelons filled with fetid water that slowly leaks out of a tiny hole at the bottom. I should have gone into education.)

ANYWAY.

There are a few things that have gotten me through the winter (obviously not WRITING, amirite? Ha ha. But seriously, no.) that I feel the need to publicly thank. My postpartum jams, if you will. And if you are a new or expectant parent, or just an awesome person who likes booze and weird anime sites about vegetables, I hope they may bring you some comfort, too.

1. The Girls Next Door Workout DVD. Now. I realize that a lot of people might have a bone to pick with that collection of words. Maybe it's "The Girls Next Door." Like, Una, how could you watch something sooooooo awful and degrading to women? To which I reply, but I've never seen Two and a Half Men. BAM. But in all seriousness, this empty-calorie "documentary" about Hugh Hefner and his decades-younger ladyfriends is kind of riveting. Or was, back when it premiered in the mid-aughts. Maybe you object to the fact that I am "working out." But, oh, friends, that's the magic thing. Because the "workout" is led by Playboy bunnies, it is the easiest thing ever. Each segment is 15 minutes long, tops, and they can't move too fast because of their giant boobs and tight shorts. So it's a lot of half-assed squats along with invaluable advice like, "Remember to breathe, because if you don't, you'll die." and "Point your toes to the sky!"


(I do NOT recommend following that advice, by the way. I don't know what Filipino malapropism Holly was smoking.)

2. My brown husband. Not what you think. I still have the white husband (Jeff.) I just also have this:

Once you go brown, you'll love sitting down.

Yup, it's a pillow. Called "the husband." How sad, right? Wrong! Amazing invention for back support while you're nursing a 17-lb. baby. And lets you make strangers think you live a thrilling, Big Love-meets-Jungle Fever lifestyle.

3. Dry shampoo. If I manage to shower, it's a Very Big Deal. On the other four days of the week (shut up, brown husband doesn't judge), I turn to my new lover dry shampoo. It, along with deodorant and passably clean underpants keeps me, if not Zest-fully clean, then at least no dirtier than your average teenage street urchin.

4. Leekspin.com. I am that mom who freaks out if her baby so much as glances at the television during 30 Rock, screaming "It's breaking his braaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiinnnnnnn!!!!"And yet I will happily sit S. in front of this bizarre site, which Jeff turned me onto a few years ago. It is literally nothing more than a happy anime girl spinning a big leek while she sings a gibberish song (at least I think it's gibberish; otherwise it is Japanese and I am racist). Regardless, the kid LOVES it. If I sit him in his Bumbo facing the computer, it buys me enough time to frantically dry shampoo my hair, and maybe even pee.


5. Wine. I mean, really--you knew this. Once a wino, always a wino. But of course I no longer drink to excess. Even though only 1% of what I ingest goes into my breastmilk, I err on the side of caution. S. is going to have to take care of me someday, and he can't be too drunk.

6. Teen Mom 2. This show is a scourge on humanity and an embarrassment to everyone involved. But it is also postpartum Prozac. You will feel like the best parent in the universe after watching an episode of Teen Mom 2. For example: Is your mother suing you for custody of your child? Does your baby-daddy's post-pubescent acne prevent him from growing a proper beard? No? YOU WIN AT LIFE.
Is this you? No? YOU ARE THE BEST MOM EVER.
7. My Hooter Hider. I know I wrote about everyone and (literally) their mom seeing my boobs, but in actuality when I'm in public I make use of a handy little chest apron called The Hooter Hider. (Also, to the commenter who told me last time that breastfeeding in public is "digusting": I have seen people eat Indian food on the subway. I have seen men with toe fungus wearing flip-flops. Breastfeeding is definitely NOT the worst thing people do in public.) The name may be unforgivably dumb--why not just call it Aureole-Away, or Tit Tent?--but it is extremely useful, seeing as my son likes to whip his head back and forth like Willow whenever I whip my nips out, like he's trying to flag down the Girls Gone Wild crew.

It's like a big muumuu necklace!
8. Mullet wigs. Because when you find yourself at a loss for activities, you can always get a head start on next year's Christmas card.

(Jeff said, "I like that you're showing some leg, too." I am nothing if not pure sex.)


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