This is my profane humor blog exploring the unique frustrations and embarrassments of pregnancy, parenting, and marriage. I'm pretty sure I was crazy before I got pregnant, now it's full-blown hormonal madness. This is Pregnancy Part 2: Revenge of the Unborn. I also have a 6yo daughter, two cats and a dog.
Life is never dull.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Random Moments near the End of Pregnancy

Me: "Ow." *grabs belly*
Friend: "What's wrong?"
Me: "I'm having butt pain."
Friend: "In your belly?"
Me: "Yes, I'm having pain where HIS butt is pushing way too hard against my belly."

Me: "Ow. This is definitely YOUR son."
Hubby: "Why?"
Me: "He doesn't like my belt. So he has decided to punch repeatedly at the belt through my belly to make it go away."
Hubby: *snort* "That's rude."
Me: "That's YOUR boy!"

Me: "Really baby? You can't just let me eat in peace?"
Hubby: "What's he doing?"
Me: "He has hiccups. I'm trying to eat pizza. It's VERY distracting to try and eat a slice of pizza when someone JUST BELOW your stomach keeps having VIOLENT hiccups."
Hubby: *blinks* "I can only imagine."

So we have established that baby is 1) very likely a boy, 2) going to have a much larger birth-weight than his sister :( 3) already has a clear personality, and 4) is most likely a stubborn son-of-a-lovely woman. 
I've four weeks left. MAX. I refuse to go over! Then we will have to convert the blog to something joyous about babies... told through a lens of humor and sarcasm.
Wish me luck.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Duck you autocorrect!

So I have a dumb-phone. Not a smart phone. My phone is a Motorola, about 4yrs old, just starting to fall apart. New phones have 'autocorrect'. My phone has a vastly limited dictionary spawned in some other country, that fails to recognize even basic common words like 'Walmart' and 'taco'.
It would be nice if it had some memory or function devoted to allowing me to ADD new words to the dictionary, but the creators of this phone did not feel a need to offer that feature, instead they wanted to make sure to add 'minesweeper'.

Which brings us to yesterday's texts.

Me: This phone is so stupid. It keeps changing "thats" to "thatq". WHICH IS NOT A WORD.

Hubby: Are you SURE thatq is not a word?


Him: I asked my phone. (He has a Samsung smarty smart phone. It's only flaw is a tendency to run out of battery without warning, and cut off his call, JUST before I hit the punchline of a joke.) It says "thatq" is NOT a word. Your predictive text is messed up.

Me: My predictive text can't even SPELL predictive text.
      SRSLY. I had to sit there, in the parkinglot, and punch in 'predictive text' one letter at a time.

Him: LOL I'm sorry, but that's funny.

Me: Just wait til tell it I want to cook human.

Him: WHAT?

Me: GUMBO. duck this phone!

Him: LOL

Friday, June 28, 2013

What Dreams May Come...

I have a lot of weird conversations with Hubby. We value wit, debate, and discussion... When that fails I accuse him of bizarre crimes. Especially the crime of being frugal.

The most entertaining conversation recently happened while he was asleep.

3am, in bed, out of the blue, Hubby declares in a clear carrying voice.

Him: "Yes, I want two cheeses. Make that cheddar, ranch and jalapenos..."

Me: "Honey! You are IN BED. You cannot order a sandwich from your bedroom!"

Him: "You've just crushed my dreams."

The best part is the only thing he remembers is accusing me of crushing his dreams.

Later, during the day.
Me: "So YOUR DREAM is to be able to order a sandwich. In bed."

Him: "It doesn't even have to be in bed! It's probably a symbol of how much I wish I could eat lunch."

Me: "That's a sad sad statement about life."

Him: "Isn't it though?"

Maybe one of these days I'll have to bring that man a sandwich.

Friday, May 31, 2013

Conversations with my 6yo

I haven't blogged in FAR TOO LONG. The third trimester is filled with cleaning and moodiness and sometimes WRATH. But mostly cleaning, and then being tired from all this 'nesting' I'm apparently doing.
Instead we will quote conversations from Monster, my 6yo daughter, who is likely as weird as her mother, but much cuter and not quite as warped.

...And they all DIED.
Her: "Mommy. I have bad news." *her face very somber* "The Little People who went to live in the fishtank? They all died." (Little People are Monsters version of a 'flea circus'. I think they look human, but they are invisible, very tiny, and apparently exist in great numbers in our house)
Me: "Oh dear! Did the fish eat them?"
Her: *still very pragmatic* Yes. Silvery ate one over here... *pointing to the 20 gallon tank* Goldy at the ones that lived here. Then Silvery ate the ones that hid here. And Goldy ate the last ones over here."
Me: "Well, Silvery and Goldy DO tend to eat anything they can get a hold of."
Her. "Yes. Moving to a fishtank was a bad idea."

One is a Lonely Number
Monster in the bathtub.
Her: *suddenly shrieking bloody murder at the top of her voice* MOMMY! MOOOOMMMMMYYYY!!
Me: *bursts in, having a heart attack* WHAT??
Her: *totally calm, sitting in the water, holds up a tiny sponge shaped like a kangaroo* Do you know where any more of my sponge animals are?
Me: "THAT is what you wanted? I'm really not sure where they are."
Her: "Oh. well, If you see one, PLEASE bring it in here. My kangaroo is lonely."
Me: "Alrighty then." (There are a lot of moments when I am boggled by her priorities)

Instant Fame and Youtube
Her: "Mommy, we should videotape our fishtank. Then they'll be FAMOUS."
Me: "You mean like the fancy aquarium we looked at on youtube."
Her: "Yes. Our fish are amazing and should be famous."
Me: "I hate to break it to you sweetie, but being on youtube really doesn't count as being famous. To be famous lots and lots of people have to see you, and put you on TV."
Her: *looks at me, looks back at her fishtank* "Don't worry Mommy. Everyone will love our fish."

Times Keep Changing
Her: (Midway through describing a very long game with specific rules she invented that centers around dressing Teddy Bears) "...Then when you're done dressing your bear and drawing it, you hit the delete button-"
Me: "But this isn't a video game. These are actual bears, they don't have buttons."
Her: *gusty sigh and pointed stare* "It is NOT a video game. So you hit the delete button and dress the bear all over again."
Me: "So you take the bears clothes off and pick new ones?"
Her: *like I'm the slowest kid in school* "Yes. You get new clothes for the bear. Okay?"

Typical Weirdness at Home 
Me: (realizing she's been VERY quiet in her room for a long time) "Monster? Are you DEAD?"
Her: "No! If I were dead I wouldn't be talking right now."
Me: "Excellent observation. Please carry on not being dead."

These are just a few of the conversations we've had. I'll have to write down more as time goes on.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

What's wrong with a ninja baby?

This isn't a real post, but I'm sore from all this endless expanding baby wants to do, and people were so amused by my machete story that I should probably talk about the swords now.

First, background. My house has plenty of SPACE for all of us, it's just an odd design. The two largest bedrooms are upstairs, along with the main living area and kitchen and a bathroom. We have two more bedrooms downstairs, but they're completely isolated from the other two. Thus, we're going to be sharing rooms with the baby since the six year old is a bit too young to live in the basement by herself.

So I posted this photo last weekend...
Just finished making room in the bedroom for baby!
It should be obvious, the crib's going between the bookshelf (looming shadow) and the end table, and then I can make some space on the shelves for baby stuff. 

The first response I got: "You're putting the baby under the swords?"

Dude, the swords are like 6 ft off the ground. If the baby COULD reach the swords he'd have to be some kind of ninja, and after all, they ARE ninja swords, so if the baby just somehow FLEW up, climbing the wall parkour style, grabbed a sword, and then landed, I'd be like "See, it was your destiny. Congrats, the swords are yours."

Apparently people were worried about the swords FALLING. Well, THAT is simply not an issue, besides the fact that I live no where near any sort of earthquake zone, that rack is really solid. It came as a table display, and with some brackets, bolts, a level and some straps,  those things are SECURE. It was one of those things my husband demanded when it came to displaying swords in a home with a six year old. (Seriously, you are all paranoid.)

I mentioned people's comments to Hubby.

Me: "People don't like the idea of the swords hanging above the baby."
Him: "Huh. Spoilsports."
Me: "Seriously! Besides, it could be like some subconscious motivational tool."
Him: "How's that?"
Me: "Our child could grow up to be a ninja! He or she KICKS hard enough. With the swords there it would be like, 'Look to your destiny! Someday, if you are worthy, the swords shall be yours!' "

Him: "Is there a job market for ninjas?"
Me: "You know... I have no idea. At least I'm not making the baby a mobile out of W2's and subconsciously urging the baby to be a TAX ACCOUNTANT. That would be weird."
Him: "Most definitely."

In an unrelated note, my highly creative daughter has a half dozen imaginary brothers and sisters. Two of them are ninjas. She tells me about how they leap from tree to tree, and ride on the roof of our car. They also go to ninja school, and were 'born to be ninjas'. 

Even the six year old has a concrete understanding of ninjas. Trust me, you don't want to stand between a ninja and his/her destiny.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Conversations with Pets

This isn't a long post, but I felt bad about not writing for a while... And then I got maimed this morning in a TOTALLY FUNNY WAY... So thus, blog.

CAT: My toe is hurt. LOOK AT ME!
ME: Kinda busy.
CAT: WHY DON'T YOU CARE? I'm going to lick my toe to show you just how hurt it is.
ME: FFS. You're TOE got wrenched after you dug ALL YOUR CLAWS into MY LEG and launched off my lap, then one claw got snagged in my pants.
CAT: You wear pants just to TORTURE ME.
ME: I'M THE ONE BLEEDING! That's why I'm over here with the disinfectant!
CAT: You don't CARE. You are a horrible human being.

DOG: Hey guys?
DOG: Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to let you know I just puked.
DOG: Don't worry though. You don't have to clean it up.
ME: ......
DOG:  I got hungry after so I cleaned it up.
ME: I should have just got goldfish.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

UPDATED! People say you shouldn't arm pregnant women. I say it's more dangerous to make them arm themselves.

So I was struggling to think of something hilarious to blog about, I decided to rely on my tweets from last Thursday, so if you follow my twitter, you may have heard this one.

Basically, it started late at night, when I lay trying to sleep, while my brain did cartwheels and backhand-springs and decided to think of EVERYTHING that I did not possibly need to think of when trying to sleep. The result was I started thinking about the massive pine near my front lawn. This tree has been a -problem- for years. It sits there, with its branches all long and unkempt, two branches try to hit the house when the wind blows, and the central branch sticks out across the lawn right at eye level, so when mowing or feeding you get a face full of pine.
The PROBLEM is that this tree is one INCH over the property line. Technically, that means it isn't ours. TECHNICALLY that means we have to ask the aging reclusive neighbors (who I believe MUST be vampires) to cut the branch. This does not please me.
So while I lay there, my brain treated me to a nirvana vision of how beautiful the lawn would look if I hacked off the three offending branches, how I'd be free to walk beneath the tree without bodily injury, how I could set out a bird bath, and the sun would shine, and the roses would bloom, and everything would be PERFECT.
It makes perfect sense. The branches must DIE.

This focus did not abate in the morning.

Tweet: "I want a laser scalpel that can cut tree branches. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?"

The internet failed to instantly provide me with laser weapons, so I started googling chainsaws, and arguing with Hubby, who was home that day.

Tweet: "Don't you think I DESERVE a chain saw? Your pregnant wife needs a chain saw!" "My pregnant wife, with the chainsaw, in the conservatory."
I swear it's like he DOESN'T UNDERSTAND the IMPORTANCE of cutting these branches. THEY ARE MOCKING ME.
When he realized I was serious, he became surprisingly adamant about NOT buying a chainsaw. He said it was too expensive. (Twitter said he was afraid. Twitter also said he was wise not to arm me. TWITTER LIES.)
But with the endless persistence of a woman ON A MISSION I convinced him to go to the hardware store. To find a more 'cost effective solution'.


It was the machete or a handsaw. Have I mentioned I love SWORDS? And I have some? And I always WANTED a machete? We got a machete, and an early dinner, then we came home for a nap... Despite the fact that I wanted to DECLARE WAR ON TREES.
I couldn't sleep, but Hubby did. Which may not have been in his best interest.

Steve takes pity on my husbands sanity. Why does everyone think Hubby is so sane? HE married ME. I think that speaks for itself.
But Hubby was a good sport. Which led to a photo op.

I do not look like a crazy person.
And this:

Tweet: dude. Tree branches are hard to saw through. In other news I'm covered in sawdust.

I started with a small branch... AND WAS VICTORIOUS. But the big branch is STILL there. It's too big for the machete, and too high for me to want to spend an HOUR sawing away at it. So we've come back to this:

Tweet: Hubby says I can't BUY a chainsaw, but I can BORROW one. WHO WANTS TO LOAN ME ONE?

Thus far, the internet has not obliged me.

It's Thursday, one week since I got my machete. I had three trees that needed pruning. The Big branch, my nemesis, the driveway-bitch (a bow that makes a point of hitting me in the face when I walk past the car. EVERY SINGLE TIME), and the Dog Tree, who's branches grab at my hair every time I take the dog to her spot to pee.

THE DRIVEWAY-BITCH IS DEAD! With sawing of my machete, and sheer brute force, I have declared VICTORY over that branch. For added measure I killed a dozen small dead branches on the BIG Tree, (where the big branch must die), and a moderately thick dead branch I sawed off.

My Victim... or Trophy.
So YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED TREES! Mess with me, and I'm COMING for you.
I am the slayer of trees.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

I'm being stalked by my change jar.

Conversation from this morning:

Me: "Okay, you get points for being clever, but it's really not funny to wake up to the judgemental eyes of Andrew Jackson watching me sleep."

Hubby: "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Me:  "THE CHANGE JAR. Andrew Jackson is STARING at me, and I'm lying here half asleep being watched by some voyeuristic dead president."

Him: "What??"

Me: "I'll send you a picture."
Andrew Jackson disapproves of your saving habits.
(From my angle, under the headboard it was even worse, the glass made his eyes look even more judgey.)

Him: "Holy Crap. That IS really creepy."

Me: "I thought YOU did it."

Him: "Nope. I'm not that clever."

Me: "This just proves Andrew Jackson is stalking us from beyond the grave. We better not spend that twenty. It's probably cursed."

Him: "Doesn't that mean we should spend it?"

Me: "No, because if he gained sentience in our jar he'd probably be pissed to be given away in trade for enchiladas or something."
Him: "Damnit."

Me: "I know right."

Him: "No, now I want Enchiladas."

Me: "Crap. Me too. Jackson's days are numbered."

Monday, March 18, 2013

Conversations with Boobs

Pregnancy does all sorts of unique, exciting things to the human body. Most are uncomfortable. Boobs are no exception. I know, people read Boobs and think it's going to be some salacious sexy post.... No. It's really not. Pregnant body boobs are like whiny four-year-olds you must house in a bra of proper specifications to avoid misery. Here's the joy of boob changes in several conversations.

Last Month
Boobs: Did you notice? We're getting bigger.
Me: Yeah... That's kind of obvious.
Boobs: We thought you should know. BECAUSE EVERYTHING HURTS NOW.
Boobs: No more bras! EVER! We REFUSE!
Me: FINE. *goes bra-less*

One Hour Later...
Boobs: We aren't happy. We told you EVERYTHING HURTS so now you're without a bra? Are you  
           some kind of monster??

One Week Later...
Boobs: Your bras don't fit. Are you trying to crush us to death? This is ridiculous.
Me: FINE. We'll go shopping.
Boobs: Too tight.
*next one*
              Too itchy
*next one*
              WTF! Can't you just find a bra that isn't some contortionists NIGHTMARE?
Boobs: Fine. the last one. Let's just get the hell out of this store.
Me: Agreed.

One Week Later...
Boobs: You remember the lady at the store who fitted you for a bra? The one who was REALLY REALLY sure we needed a C cup, so we bought the fancy nursing bras there?
Me: Yes...
Boobs: The new bras are too small!
Me: Goddammit. *back to the store*

One Week Later...
Boobs: We like this bra.
Me: That's great.
Boobs: Just one problem...
Me: For gods sake, WHAT NOW?
Boobs: Your bra is damp.
Me: What the hell?
Me: There are not enough words to express how much I hate you right now.

Blogging Joys

You know how when you really really need to go to sleep, because it's already late, and you have to get up in the morning, but instead of helpfully going to sleep your mind decides now is the best possible time to come up with all sorts of amazing new ideas, solutions to the worlds problems, and how better to fix that clogged drain? Yeah... Insomnia is a bitch.

Insomnia is also why this blog exists, because I tend to think of the most clever sarcastic things to say about life when I'm in bed, trying to sleep. I've been threatening my twitter with some place to put my more irreverent humor. (ie not suitable for work, includes swearing, probably boob jokes.)

It started out as a plan to make it all about pregnancy and how that whole process hijacks everything in life, but given the fact that I have the attention span of an over-caffeinated squirrel right now, I can pretty much guarantee the subject matter here will wander to include conversations with my husband, parenting moments, and those times I just really need to rant about something. I need to rant much more often now that I have raging hormones and frankly everyone should just be glad I haven't killed anyone by now.

(This all might be funnier if you know me. I might just be coming off as deranged crazy person right now. Which isn't entirely off base, but I assure you, I'm harmless. I only think out detailed and specific ways to harm my enemies. I don't do them. Besides, actually performing a crime and blogging about it before or after would be pretty stupid. Think about it.)

So... that's my mission statement. I will make an effort to make it all fun and interesting, if I fail then this will mostly serve as a memoir for me to look back at in saner times and say, "Wow, I really WAS batshit crazy wasn't I? Good thing I'm not doing THAT again."

Note to Future Me: We decided on TWO KIDS. Remember that. If years from now you get all nostalgic for some cute squirmy baby (Babies are awesome, I get that.) I want you to remember CAREFULLY how insane, uncomfortable, nauseated, and tired being pregnant makes you FOR NINE MONTHS. If you change your mind later, I will build a time machine and slap you upside the head. -Pregzilla

Finally, a note to all you grammar crazy, format hounding typo hating types. I'M SORRY. The sheer effort of staying on topic, spelling correctly, and not merely quitting mid sentence makes me way less interested in caring about whether or not I was consistent with my use of italics. In my real life I pretend to be a writer, here, I just don't care enough to care. So basically what I'm saying is I know there are rules. I even know enough to feel a vague twinge of guilt for breaking them. Right now, I'm sitting here having what amounts to a fairly paranoid conversation with some reader who may not even exist, because deep down I suspect you all are judging me for every comma splice and misused caps lock.
But I'm pregnant, tired, and completely out of my mind, so... I'm going to break those rules, and hope that the rest of you (Comma Nazi Excluded!) will enjoy the writing despite its flaws.
Okay. Done with that. Back to your lives citizens.