There are a Million Reasons Not to Get Married. This is Just One of Them…

So before I regale you guys with this story, I have to preface it by making an attempt to lay the groundwork for the case that I’m not god damn crazy. I do realize that most who know me well will vehemently dispute that assertion (because they’ve born witness to a lifetime of my erratic and unpredictable behavior that has not been based solely on this particular incident.) I’m probably going to sound like a nut bag to most after sharing this incredibly awkward situation. Then again, somehow, Donald Trump is our president. Therefore I don’t feel a ton of pressure to appear sane to the general public,as, apparently the general public fucking LOVES people that are bat shit nuts. At least the American general public. Maybe I’ll run for office….

ANYHOW.
I’ve been separated from my ex-husband for four years. However… I held on to my wedding dress. I had my wedding ring and engagement ring melted down to nothing for cash, and then I sold the stones. My ex and I get along,* we co-parent, we look out for the girls, we don’t hate each other. But nothing about our nuptials strikes any kind of soft spot in me. (Mostly because I don’t own a soft spot.**) To say i’m not sentimental or materialistic would be as much an understatememt as saying Taco Bell is just “okay”***
So I kept the dress. Not because it matters on a sentimental level to me  (it doesn’t) not because I’m preserving it for anything special (it lived in a garage and then under my bed for years in no conditions that were meant to assist in its preservation.) I keep it because every once in a while I like to see if it still fits. Let’s take a minute to collectively recognize all of the reasons that’s really stupid:

Vanity? Check

Discomfort with aging? Check

Unrealistic expectations that my body will be the same at 37 after two kids as it was at 24? Check

 

But i did it all the same.  I keep a garment in my closet that somehow seems to symbolize the end of my youth and the beginning of adulthood. And for me, as fucked up as this is, if it fits, somehow I’m preserving a bit of my youth. For me, at the very least, if it fits, i’m still not on the downward spiral into being the old lady at the YMCA locker room that shamelessly bares my wrinkled old ass to the world while using the automatic hair dryer to fluff my full bush after water aerobics.
So a few weeks ago i got it in my head that I’d try it on.  It was a Friday, I was supposed to be meeting my boyfriend for a basketball game. It had been…maybe two years since i put the damn thing on. (Mostly because i’m now so averse to marriage, i figured my skin would burst into flames if anything related to marriage touched my skin…)  It was just hanging out in the storage space of the apartment we just moved into, and i dragged it upstairs to give it a go while the kids were eating dinner.****
Much as usual; and this was true on the day of my wedding, I had a tough time with getting the zipper all the way up, but i was finally able to get it all the way up. Unassisted!
I had a moment…just one…of “sweetness…this still fits.”
…before that moment turned into, “ OHHHHHHHHH fuck. I’ve had a boob job since the last time i wore this god forsaken gown. How in seven hells did i not realize my tits are about 70% bigger now than they were when I wore this damn thing?!”
I’d love to tell you that the zipper just got snagged and it took a little longer to wiggle down than it should have. I’d love to tell you that. But the reality is that after ten hellish minutes of working that mother fucker like I was in a Saw movie, and the key to my survival was getting the zipper of a dress I should never have worn, much less kept and occasionally attempted to try on was the key to my very survival, I walked out of my bedroom

in tears…to my unwitting children who were eating mcdonalds happy meals.*****
I panicially screamed at Violet that she had to help get me out of the dress,  while she was simultaneously asking me if i was going to a dance. I managed to calmly reply “no, but i need your help to get this dress off, hun,” When in my head I was screaming “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?! I DON’T GO TO DANCES, THAT’S NOT A THING, WHO’S KID ARE YOU?!”
Amid the tirade I unleashed upon her,  Violet struggled with the zipper. And I started to feel desperate. The boyfriend was expected in 15 minutes. Again, I have to paint a picture for you guys. I have forcefully expressed to him my opposition to re-marriage since like…probably the first time we ever talked. It’s sort of my pick up line. “You’re cute. You don’t wanna get married like…ever, though, right?” All I could think standing in my kitchen with my kid’s McNugget greasy fingers fumbling with the stuck zipper of a wedding dress I was ACTUALLY GOD DAMN WEARING while expecting a man I’d expressed my VEHEMENT opposition to marriage was: 1. What the fuck is he gonna think if I have to let him in wearing a wedding dress?! 2. What the fuck is he gonna think when I’m like “no….no no no…..this is my wedding dress from my first wedding…”
You know that moment on Who Wants to be a Millionaire when the contestant gets to phone a friend to avoid losing their ass on broadcast TV? I know how that feels. Because I was seconds away from phoning a friend to rectify the situation. With scissors…a kitchen knife…the jaws of life…literally whatever her choice of instruments would be just to get me out of that dress, I’d have acquiesced. When I later informed her of the perilous situation she was nearly summoned to assist with she was, at best, unsympathetic, and more accurately, a complete cunt about it. Her response was basically, “HOLY SHIT I wish like HELL your ass wouldn’t have found a way out of that dress because pretty much, the Friday night of MY DREAMS is having to cut someone out of a wedding dress in EXACTLY this circumstance!!!” What does it say about me that I loved her even more after that response than I did when she was the person I was intending to call when I thought I was going to have to live out my life in that goddamn dress for the rest of my life without her help? I’ll answer that rhetorical question for you: it says I only keep company with the most bad-ass of women.
Fortunately, however, Violet’s disrobing efforts****** succeeded at just the right moment to free me from my self-manufactured conundrum, therefore my badass lady-pal got to sit at home (presumably drinking wine straight from the bottle, I don’t know, I am using literary license, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s super accurate) instead of hauling her wine buzzed ass to my apartment to jail break me out of a wedding dress I should never have worn, and DEFINITELY shouldn’t have kept, and more importantly,should definitely not have attempted to try on nearly 15 years after the fateful day for which it was purchased.
Morals of this story:

1. Don’t get married. I’m not saying don’t love someone forever and ever, or don’t have kids, or don’t be open to relationships. Just…for fuck’s sake. You don’t need a piece of paper from our Trump-scusting government to validate your love for someone. It’s just stupid.
2. Wedding dresses. Also stupid. Uncomfortable, impractical, patriarchal. If you insist on getting married, ladies, please. Do it in whatever you’re most comfortable in, NOT what society tells you you have to wear to look beautiful. Wear your flannel shirt or your comfy jeans, or your adult unicorn onsie pajamas. Fuck, if you’re comfortable in a wedding dress…WEAR THAT SHIT. Just don’t do anything you aren’t completely comfortable with on a day you will want to remember forever. Because looking back at pictures of yourself in an adorable dress and realizing that all you wanted to do was smash cake into your talk hole or do that keg stand at your reception, without having to worry about your dress flying up around your head without relying on the 5 men who graciously preserved your modesty without request******* makes you realize how dumb that goddamn dress was.
3. This moral is the hardest for me. I’ve been hanging onto a dress that I wore 13 years ago. Before kids, before I graduated college, before much of my adult life. Not because it’s symbolic; an homage to the failed relationship that it was supposed to represent when first I wore it. I have no sentiment towards the garment. I kept it simply as a finishing line. A goal. A brass ring. If I fit into it, I’m as attractive as I was on the day that I was supposed to be at my most attractive. This is the lie we tell ourselves as women. I don’t fit into it anymore. If I want to get into that stupid dress, I have to force myself into it. And I realize now I don’t have to force any of it anymore. Not the dress, not someone else’s expectations for my life, not traditional existence. I don’t need the body I had at 24, I don’t have to live up to the expectations I had of my life at that age…I don’t need to cling to the completely naive expectations I had for for my life before I even knew what real life was for one more goddamn second.  Back then, I was squeezing myself into a life I didn’t ever want. And a piece of me was still wanting to cling to the perfect traditional existence I was aiming for at the tim;, just the slightest sliver of me still wanted that. But if I don’t want the life that dress was supposed to represent, I need to let go of my last stronghold, and embrace the life I HAVE. And LOVE. and maybe that dress is the last moulting of the life I never wanted. And the beginning of a life I never thought I would have or was deserving of.

*until we don’t, and then I refer to him as a giant asshole, until he stops being a giant asshole, and yields to my will, at which point, I cling to the description of our parting of ways as an “amicable divorce.” Which is my preferred version of reality
**Unless we’re including furniture. Because I may have a soft spot for soft and comfortable furniture. But that’s the extent of my soft spots.
***If you’re one of those shit nozzels that trash talks Taco Bell, you need to stop reading right now, because we won’t agree on anything.Taco Bell is so NOT just okay, asshole. Taco Bell is the modern day equivalent of mana in the desert.
****Friday night fun times are a LOT different when you’re 37 and divorced with two kids than they are when you’re 24
*****Still waiting on my parent of the year award
******McDonald’s fry-greased-finger zipper lubrication plan
*******Maybe that was just my wedding reception…maybe that doesn’t always happen.

Matilda James: 1 Month

Matilda James is now a month old, and I can’t believe how fast it goes, even though I’ve done this before, and should absolutely know that time just slips right past you before you know it.  

Matilda at 1 month:

Matilda is a much better sleeper than Violet was.  After two weeks, she was successfully sleeping the entire night in her bassinet instead of crying until I held her.  She also only wakes up about every three hours, and it seemed like Violet was up a lot more than that.

She shits a lot less than Violet, but farts and burps ALL the time.  She also snorts, farts, sqeaks, and makes various other man-like noises while trying to settle to sleep.  This has made getting myself to sleep LOADS of fun considering I’ve got the mom ears that come with having a newborn, and I can hear it every time he eyelids flutter.

Matilda has done great getting on an eating schedule, something we never bothered to do with Violet because, 1. she was my first and I basically just did whatever she told me to do because itty-bitty-baby!!  and 2. I had six more weeks of maternity leave with Violet than I do with Matilda, so I took my time getting her on a schedule.  Matilda has had to adjust very quickly to schedules and bottles and such, and has done well with it.

I mean…I don’t know…what else can you say about a one month old, really??  She’s an adorable little lump that isn’t quite smiling yet, but is definitely starting to be more and more alert day by day.  She looks IDENTICAL to Violet when she was first born, so I am looking forward to having two mini-mees.  She’s a pretty mellow baby, and has displayed NO signs of colic, which was a big fear of mine.  I can’t wait to find out just who Matilda is going to be!

SAHM Fail.

I am not the biggest fan of being a full-time, stay at home mom.

Which may make me a shitty mom.

(Also? The fact that I refer to my kids as assholes to the internet may contribute to the fact that on a scale from one to Joan Crawford? …well I am closer to screaming about wire hangers than I like to freely admit.)

Okay, maybe I’m not a completely shitty mom.  But I am a shitty full-time stay at home mom.

In my mind, being a good stay-at home mom involves a carefully designed daily outline including arts and crafts, educational lessons, story time, prescribed napping times, and independent play time.  And possibly a snack?  Perhaps finger foods constructed from organic fruits and nuts and shaped like my children’s favorite Nick Jr. cartoon character?  Wait, I’m supermom in the fantasy…obviously I would never let my offspring become invested in a television program.  No, snacks will resemble only current congress members and Biblical figures.

…Okay.  Maybe that description is a little over the top.  But, at the very least, in order to be a successful stay at home mom, I should be able to do a load of laundry (just one load!) without finding the washed remnants of newborn-shit-yellow stained wipies among the clean clothes. (I’ve harvested at least one from every load since Matilda was born.  Time to move the trash can further away from the laundry basket, perhaps?)  At the very least, in order to be a successful stay at home mom, one should be able to nuke some fucking chicken nuggets and stick them in front of the three-year-old while she watches Sponge Bob before 2 pm.  And ya know what you guys?  Sometimes that is a struggle for me.  Finding a way to keep my three-year old entertained ALL DAY without using the TV?  Well, it’s harder than a priest at a playground.

Don’t let me give you the wrong impression here.  I love my kids, and I love hanging out with my kids.  And if I could feel good about waking up at 11 am every morning and NOT changing into clothes, or making my kids put clothes on, eating cereal out of the box and cold pizza for lunch, and watching trashy TV or Nick Jr. all day long, I would TOTALLY LOVE being a stay at home mom!  But after two or three weeks of that schedule?  I kind of feel like the three year old and I are getting dumber, and smellier, and it’s my fault.  And I can’t feel good about that.

You see, Just like my kids, I need routine.  Only, I don’t like to be the person that I depend on to hold me to that routine.  Which is why I actually really like having a job.  Something that forces me to be up at 6 am.  Okay, that part kind of blows.  But at least something that forces me to…shower and brush my teeth daily?  Because although it’s pretty badass that my kids don’t give a damn if I walk around kissing them with coffee breath until noon, weeks of poor hygiene kind of take a toll on one’s marriage and social life.

So, as the end of my maternity leave draws near, I realize that I love being with my kids as much I have been over these last few weeks. However, I also realize that as much fun as we have had, it’s in their best interest for me to limit their exposure…to me.

You be the Judge

Matilda James Davis: The Most Interesting Baby in the World

Matilda James Davis

My children apparently think that being born is some kind of race.  When giving birth for the first time I anticipated 12 hours or more of contractions steadily increasing in intensity, followed by an hour or two of pushing, and ultimately a gorgeous baby.  Anyone who’s read Violet’s birth story knows that the only thing I was right about was the gorgeous baby part.

Because Violet hauled ass out of my uterus at an alarming pace, I knew that my next kid would probably follow suit.  This reality became increasingly clear when I told my OB that my first child was born 6 hours after I had my first contraction.  Her eyes bulged out of her head as she said, “That was your first?” and I replied, “Yep.”  She then proceeded to tell me that as soon as I felt any signs of labor I needed to head to the hospital.  That’s what she said with her mouth.  The face part of her appeared to convey the more ominous message, “You cannot fuck around, or your next baby will be born in your car.” Awesome.

Unfortunately, Matilda made things a little less obvious than Violet did.  With Violet, I never ever had a Braxton Hicks contraction.  In fact, my first ever contraction was a for-real birth contraction, and I mistook it for indigestion at first.  With Matilda, however, I started having Braxton Hicks contractions at 29 weeks, and they didn’t stop until the real ones started.  At about 38 weeks, the contractions were 5-10 minutes apart. Consistently.  Like, for days, you guys.  After one trip to labor and delivery for monitoring, and one late night phone call to the on-call midwife at my OB’s office, I started to feel like kind of an asshole for not knowing if I was in labor or not.  I also started to feel like my tiny little baby was kind of an asshole for faking everyone out; especially after my OB’s warning to get my ass to the hospital ASAP when I started having “regular contractions.” As a result, I spent the better part of the end of this pregnancy contracting, hoping that when my water broke it wasn’t on my parents’ new couch, or the nice rug in my kitchen, or the driver’s seat of my car, and waiting for shit to get real.

Finally, at 2:15am on January 22^nd, shit got real.  I had one mother of a contraction.  Like the kind that you can’t talk or breathe through, and generally makes you feel like someone is trying to rip your colon out through your belly button.  But…after weeks of, “Is this it?” I did exactly what my OB warned me not to do: I fucked around.  I went downstairs, picked up around the house a little bit, went to the bathroom, and got stuff around in case it was time to go.  Oh, and every seven minutes or so I had a paralyzingly painful contraction that lasted around 60-90 seconds.

By 2:45, I woke my husband up and told him I was pretty sure it was time, because, “those Braxton Hicks contractions were just contractions for pussies.  These contractions feel like the Braxton Hicks contractions on cocaine and Red Bull.”  Then I phoned the on-call midwife and told her I was in labor.  I actually had to stop talking to her mid-conversation to breathe through what felt like Matilda Hulking-out in my uterus.  The midwife asked me what my plan for pain management was, to which, I replied, “I want a huge epidural immediately when I get to the hospital.” She laughed and said she would see me in a bit.

So the hubs got Violet ready and in the car to take to my parents’, and I hobbled out on what turned out to be one of the coldest nights of the year. Also?  Another thing that was awesome about Matilda’s timing?  It had snowed maybe a couple inches in the four hours since we’d gone to bed.  And living in a rural area, the counties hadn’t sent out snow plows just yet because, “It’s three-o-clock in the morning, and it’s rural Ohio, so obviously no one is driving anywhere.”  Normally unplowed roads with two inches of blowing snow wouldn’t be that big of a deal.  Unless you are totally in labor, you guys. And unless you have to depend on your husband who is from Tucson and not used to driving on snow-covered roads to drive you to the hospital.  Then it’s kind of a big deal.  The entire ride went something like this:

Me (not having a contraction): Don’t speed fast, I don’t want you to slide off the road and wind up in a ditch.

Dan: Okay.

Me (during a contraction): PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE speed if you can!  We need to get the hospital!  I need an epidural rightfreakingnow!

Dan: Okay.

Me (after the contraction): Okay, okay, slow down, we don’t need to get into an accident on our way.

Dan: Okay.

Repeat about ten times.

We finally arrived to the hospital, and by this time, I was in so much pain that I had completely forgotten that we were about to welcome the newest member of our family into the world via my vagina.  Because I was keeping my eyes on the prize: the sweet nectar of epidural juice.  However, naturally, there’s a shit-ton of paperwork that simply must be filled out before I can be introduced to the anesthesiologist.  That’s where I started getting kind of bitchy.  Because, you see, I thought I had made myself pretty clear, about the whole pain management thing.  And, to be honest, I was a little annoyed that the hospital staff hadn’t sent someone out to the parking lot to meet us with my spinal cocktail upon our arrival.

As I was filling out what seemed like a phonebook’s worth of paperwork that I assumed was my key to blissful numbness, my mom and sister arrived.  I should have been…happy? grateful? I wasn’t.  When Dan declared, “Your mom and sister are here,” I replied, “The only person I want to see is the anesthesiologist!” My sister, having never seen anyone in labor before, or witnessed a birth, or gone through hard labor herself, as she needed c-sections for both of her precious babies, tried to take the edge off with humor by suggesting, “Wow, what if they tell you it’s too late for an epidural?” That statement put me over the edge, and I’m pretty sure everyone in the ER waiting room heard me screaming, “SHUT UP MEGAN! JUST SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW!”

Shortly after I attempted to make my sister cry, we were all whisked away to labor and delivery where a very nice nurse who I was very not nice to asked me to take all my clothes off and put a hospital robe on so that she could be the first person of the night to put her hands in my hoohah.  I went to the bathroom realized the robe wasn’t snapped up and may as well have been a damn Rubik’s cube that I was not in the mood to try and figure out.  I exited the bathroom, butt ass naked with the robe barely covering the front of me, in front of my sister and mom, (neither of whom have seen me naked in the past two decades), and literally in tears. When the nurse walked in I cried, “I can’t figure this damn thing out!! It’s not snapped up! I’m naked!”  After she dressed me like I was a two year old and got me to the hospital bed, she reached in to see how far dilated I was, declared, “about 7 cm” and practically ran out of the room as I screamed, “WHERE IS THE ANESTESIOLOGIST?!?!?!” after her.

Several painful minutes later, the nurse returned with another woman, who I immediately asked, “Are you the anesthesiologist?!” To which she replied, “No I’m the midwife, and I need to check how far dilated you are.” So the second fisting of the night commenced, and the midwife declared, “You’re like, 9-9 ½ cm dilated, Sarah.  Here’s the deal: I can either break your water and you can have this baby in ten minutes, or we can wait an hour for the anesthesiologist to get here.”

You guys, you have never in your life seen someone lose as much of their shit as I lost right then.

I completely broke down, crying, looking at my mom, saying, “This is bullshit!  This is not what was supposed to happen!”  Basically, I didn’t really cope well with the news that I was either going to have to give birth naturally, or suffer for another hour until they could administer an epidural so strong someone could pull my toe nails out and I wouldn’t feel it.  I was hysterical, but finally I acquiesced and told the midwife to just break my water.

You know that scene in Knocked Up?  The one where Katherine Heigl is told it’s too late for the epidural?  And then she’s all, “I FEEL EVERYTHING!!!!!!”  That scene just kept running through my mind because that is EXACTLY how I felt.  I felt EVERYTHING, and you guys?  It felt bad.  The first time I tried to push it was awful.  I didn’t feel like I needed to push, it was so painful I couldn’t breathe, and I just quit.  I yelled at the midwife, “I’m not doing it!  I’m not pushing, get the anesthesiologist, I can’t push her out!”

At that point, I heard the midwife talking to the nurse about Matilda’s heart rate.  Urgently talking to her, about how her heart rate was dropping.  My mom looked at me and said, “You can do this.”  My husband looked at me and did everything he could to comfort and encourage me.  My sister just kept saying, “You’re so strong, you’ve already done most of the work.”  And the midwife finally used her “stop fucking around and suck it up” tone of voice and said, “Sarah, you have to do this for your baby.”

And then it suddenly stopped being about me, and started being about my baby.  And miraculously, I felt like I needed to push.  And two contractions and about five minutes later, out came Matilda, screaming her face off, filled with life, and one of the two most beautiful sights I’ve ever had the honor of witnessing.  It was 4:28am when it was all over.

Once Matilda was sufficiently cleaned up, in my arms, and things had settled down a bit, I was informed that we were very lucky that we even made it to the hospital.  The first nurse that got to second base with me explained that she’d lied to me when she told me I was 7cm dilated…that I had actually been fully dilated by the time she got between my legs, and that she’d lied to me so that I wouldn’t freak out.  (I told her she was a smart girl.)  The midwife told us that we were lucky my water hadn’t broken in the car on our way, because if it had, Matilda would absolutely have been born on the side of the road. (Dan told me we’re lucky my water didn’t break in the car, because he watched when they did it in the hospital, and, according to him, “We would never have been able to get the passenger seat clean.  I would have had to take ours out and junk it and buy a new one from a dealer.”)  She also said that when the nurse came into the on-call room where she’d been sleeping when we came in and told her, frantically, that I was fully dilated, she was in such a rush to get to us, that she wasn’t even able to find her bra, and that she’s delivered Matilda while her girls went commando.

Now that Matilda’s here, I would say, it didn’t seem that bad.  But it was totally that bad you guys, and I’m telling you if I ever get pregnant again, there will be a scheduled induction at the end of that rainbow, because I’m never doing this natural birth shit again.  But was it worth it?  Absolutely.  Matilda is wonderful, and we couldn’t be happier that she’s here with us now, no matter how she got here.  We are so blessed to have had two basically easy pregnancies, two quick and uncomplicated labors, and two beautiful and healthy baby girls at the end.  We are very lucky, and thankful for our beautiful family.

Unicorns: An Important Component of the Budgeting Process

Dear CEO’s

If I write a budget based on my real life experiences and research as the manager of an operation, and then I send it to you for approval, and you proceed to add a billion dollars to top line sales and eliminate a quarter of my labor budget, would you kindly also provide me with the magical unicorn that I will need to access the fantasy land in which you live so that I can realize said preposterous budgeted guidelines?  Also, while we’re pulling things out of our asses, I would like the unicorn to shit raspberry truffles. 

Oh Mah Gah…

Dudes…my hair is telling me…it’s humid outside…

Apparently My Face Says, “Talk to Me about Your Problems”

Which is weird, because in my mind, my face usually says things like, “I could give a fuck,” or, “I have no time for you right now,” or “I’m constipated.”

That is probably because in my mind, my mind is usually saying things like, “I could give a fuck,” or, “I have no time for you right now,” or “I’m constipated.”

Based on my bogus research, I would estimate that approximately 95% of the people that I deal with on a day-to-day basis get the message that my brain is screaming out of my eyeballs pretty loud and clear.  However, some people seem to think that knitted eyebrows, pursed lips, and a brisk tone just scream, “Despite the piles of paperwork on my desk, half dozen unanswered e-mails, and blinking red light on my phone indicating that there are new voicemail messages, I have been dying to hear about your weight loss challenges/impotence/unwanted pregnancy.”*

For those of you that may mistake an off-putting look for a look of intrigue, I offer you this diagram:

I know, right?…my face is so versatile.

I’m not saying that I’m not approachable.  I’m approachable.  I’m friendly.  In fact, I like most people that I meet.  That is, until they start telling me about their communicable diseases personal lives.

Like the other day at work, when one of our illustrious vendors confided in me about his love life.  Even now, days later, after the greater part of the mortification has dissipated, I still cannot understand how our casual conversation somehow managed to morph into a therapy session.

The encounter started as they usually do.  He took my order, and I told him about any business that he should be aware of in the near future.  He asked if there were any problems that he needed to know about, I gave a smart-assed reply that my back was pretty sore, but other than that I didn’t have any problems.  He commented that his shoulder had been hurting pretty bad, and surmised that he might need some new insoles.  I told him about some great insoles that I had recently purchased***, and assumed that we were wrapping up the meeting.

That is when things went seriously awry.

Instead of simply walking away with the golden nugget of information that I handed him about the insoles, he proceeded to explain that the shoulder pain may be due to stress.  In fact, he was most certain it was due to stress because, “my girlfriend and I are fighting a lot.”

*crickets* + *blank uncomprehending stare* = *AWKWARD SILENCE*

Despite my slack-jawed silence, the conversation continued…

Mr. Informative: Yeah, we’re kind of at that stage in our relationship where it’s like time to make the next move.  Ya know, shit or get off the pot kinda thing.  We’ve been dating for about a year now, and I practically live at her place, but I haven’t, like, made the move yet.  She’s totally ready though.  She’s 28…I’m 32…she told me the other day that if it doesn’t happen soon she’s just going to go get artificially inseminated…ha ha.”

Me: Oh. Um…I hear frozen sperm is expensive?

Mr. Informative: It’s not like I don’t want all that someday.  It’s just…ya know…right now we fight a lot.  She’s a great girl but she’s just got some insecurities.

Me *Thinks Mr. Informative is looking for advice?*: That sucks dude.  Sounds like she’s kind of a head case.

Mr. Informative: Well…it’s not all her fault.  She had like a really shitty boyfriend in college that did some pretty rotten things to her.  And then…ya know, she got all pissed off at me because my friend e-mailed me these naked pictures.  But I didn’t say anything about them I was just like, “Dude do you have a picture of her face”…ya know stuff like that.  But she was all mad at me about them because I didn’t delete them.  And I guess I really should have deleted them…”

At this point Mr. Informative gave me a look that almost seemed to beg for mercy.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I was giving him the exact same look.  We stared into each other’s eyes with a mutual understanding that we were no longer involved in a casual conversation.  We had crossed that line minutes ago, and there was nothing that either of us could do but let this atrocity of a dialogue run it’s coarse.  It was like a train wreck.  We both just wanted it all to end but couldn’t figure out a tactful way to make that happen.  Really, what could I say at this point, “Dude, sorry your girl found your online porn stash.  Sounds like it’s time to change you e-mail password…which reminds me, we need 24oz cups.”

In retrospect, that might have worked.

Instead…

Me:*Going for helpful* Um…that sounds kind of immature.

Mr. Informative: Well…yeah okay, but it’s not just that either.  So…I kind of slept with her cousin.  But it was before we were dating.  But I didn’t tell her about it.  But then she found out.  And she was pissed at me, but I was like, “Dude, your cousin totally should have been the one to tell you about it, not me!”  What was I going to do, end our first date with, “Yeah, I know we just met, but I boned your cousin a few months ago.” Come on, right?

Me:*HEAD EXPLODES FROM EMBARASSMENT, THE EXPLOSION KILLS EVERYONE IN THE ROOM.*

*I have become privy to no less than 4 colonoscopy procedures, 2 swollen prostates, 2 frigid spouses, 5 affairs, and 1 raging case of hemorrhoids in the past year alone.**

**If I don’t look you in the eye when we converse, chances are good that you are guilty of oversharing.

***Because obviously I am a 65-year-old that talks about constipation and chronic foot pain.

****Also, I just want to point out that in many of my posts I use some literary license.  With the exception of this post.  The conversation herein is pretty much verbatim.  Aside from my head exploding.  Obviously.

Teabag Not Included.

Ok.  This is a stupid rant.  And for those of you that know me,
you can attest to the fact that I don’t usually get overly emotional.  Especially about matters of little consequence.

Has anyone out there peed pants from laughing yet?

Because I totally love to get overly emotional!!!! Especially about matters of very little consequence!!!

As evidenced by my overuse of bold fonts, italics, AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!!!!!! throughout this blog.

Also as evidenced by the fact that I just cursed a mothalovin’ blue streak at Kraft Foods Inc. for using adhesive to stick the seasoning packet to the cellophane bag of pasta so that when I go to rip the seasoning packet off of the bag of pasta, the bag rips and the dry pasta flies all over the kitchen instead of into the pot of boiling water, and I have to sweep it up off of the floor and counter so I wind up with 2 month old Cheerios and lint balls mixed in with my Tuna Helper.

Congratulations, Kraft Foods: you are an asshat.*  Lose the glue gun at the end of the
production line and let that seasoning packet float free in the Tuna Helper box, mkay?

But I digress.**

What was I saying?

Oh yeah! So this is kind of silly rant.  But for real I don’t get it, and so, of course, it makes me mad: I have 11 teacups taking up one whole shelf of my cupboard.  Why do I have 11 teacups collecting dust and high jacking my precious little kitchen storage space?  Because they came with my china set.  Okay actually 12 teacups came with my china set.  I don’t know what happened to number 12.  Maybe it committed suicide because it felt worthless.  If it did, it was correct.

Because they’re dumb.  And that, ladies and gentlemen is my rant.  Why the fuck do modern china sets still come with teacups?  Twelve of them??

I have a couple of points here.  Let me give you some bullets!

• I could see my China set including the teacups if I lived in the UK or China, or some other country where they still drink tea at home instead of at Starbucks like a civilized human being.  But I don’t.  I live in the US, where hotdogs and cheese whiz abounds.  And where you can get a “china set” for around $70.  In fact, “china” is a real stretch for my set, because this stuff is one step above paper plates. (But the good Chinet paper plates, not those crappy family reunion paper plates.)  So yeah…no matter what receptacle Queen Liz insists her minions drink from, this is totally America, and I prefer to drink out of a beer bottle*** or a wine glass.
• Those teacups are itty bitty.  Like a double-A cup.  You can barely fit a teabag**** and a quarter cup of water into those cups, let alone 16 teaspoons of sugar.  Also? Didn’t congress recently pass a bill requiring all US citizens to strictly follow Starbucks beverage size guidelines when indulging in all coffee and tea related drinks?  And isn’t the Starbucks small short like 64 ounces?
• They are totally and utterly useless.  Well…okay, okay, yes.  I use them every year to color Easter eggs.  But that is only to legitimize their existence in my kitchen.  Also, I use one to sharpen my chef’s knife.  Yes, I use a chef’s knife! Because sometimes I don’t feel like eating Tuna Helper.  Like right after I’ve thrown up from eating too much Tuna Helper.  And then I have to cook things. Anyhow, yeah I use the bottom of one of the teacups to sharpen my knives.

So I’m putting my 11 remaining teacups up for sale to the highest bidder.  Because although I am a Real-Housewives-watching-Tuna-Helper-eating waste of carbon, you, my friend, are productive, creative, and chock full of teacup-using energy; you have just been waiting for your written invitation to the wonderful world of teacup activities.  This is it.  In case you are having trouble envisioning your teacup-laden future, I have developed the following list of teacup-worthy uses:

Target practice –
The shattering of the porcelain will make for a very satisfying indicator of success for the proficient marksman.  Find someone who will throw them up in the air for you, and you’ve got yourself one lively (and colorful!) game of skeet shooting.

3 & 2/3 complete sets of “hide-the-ball” – Travelling with a carnival?  Hosting a children’s birthday party? Have I got a deal for you!  I have three sets of “hide-the-ball” that you can use to  entertain the masses!  If you can provide just one Dixie cup, you’ve got four sets!  (Balls not included.)

Planters – I am guessing you can grow things in teacups.  But I wouldn’t take my word for it.  I have killed cactus.  Maybe Google it to make sure before making me an offer.

Drinking things other than tea *wink, wink, nudge, nudge* – Use these teacups to drink bourbon, scotch and moonshine, right out in the open without harassment.  Got a long drive ahead of you? The wife’s insisting that you watch Grey’s Anatomy with her so that you two can “bond?”  Need a little help getting up the nerve to talk to the office cutie?  These teacups (and what you put in them) are the cure for your boredom and lack of penis cowardice.  Because c’mon.  That attractive lady co-worker would never assume that you purposely brushed her boob with your hand while reaching for the stapler because the booze gave you the liquid courage you needed to make your move when you’re drinking out of one of your teacups!

Host a Tea Party –You are uncreative, and obviously boring.  That is why you are hosting a tea party.

Anyhow…make me an offer and basically if it covers shipping they’re yours.  Unless I get
distracted and stop checking the comments on this post.  Better act fast…my attention span is shorter than your average midget.

*I’m trying that one out. What do you think?  Less offensive than asshole, but you still get the point across and utilize obscenities.  Personally, I’m a big fan of “asshat.”

**I always digress.  I never don’t digress. What is the antonym of digress?  Whatever it is, I never do it.

***Perhaps I have accidentally touched upon a genius idea here…they should totally forego the dozen teacups in lieu of a 12-pack.  But it should really be something classy. Like Molson or MGD.

****Okay, seriously I will pay you if you didn’t laugh at that word.  Yet another reason that the teacups gotta go.