So, 2010 is turning out to be a real titty twister of a year for old yours truly. Which, of course, is an upsetting statement as we're only 19 days in. Only 346 more days to go! Haha........hah.
It all started at the stroke of midnight on January first when my stomach packed up it's bags, turned off the lights, triple checked that the coffee maker was turned off and made it's painful exit through various awkward and embarrassing parts of my body. After that I fell into an oddly deep depression and now I might be getting fired. I know I worry about getting fired a lot, but I'm filing this time under the For Realz For Realz account. I've envisioned myself getting fired from this job literally hundreds of times and 99.9% of those times involve one of my bosses casually asking if I know what a "2birds1blog is," me grabbing a box, packing up my things and leaving quietly. Shockingly, the trouble I'm currently in has nothing to do with the blog. I'd give you the details but it's nothing I didn't manically vent to Becky about last night over five Stellas, and I think even she got bored. (Sidenote: did you know that Becky got custody of the fish from The Real World DC house? In addition to already having Lily Hearst's dog? Becky's like the TMZ of pets and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed.) The moral of the story is that my bosses, as per usual, didn't communicate to me something that they wanted done, thus I didn't do it, and now they're in trouble with corporate and I'm afraid I might be on the chopping block. Ugh...and this really isn't helping the ulcer. Or the depression.
But! Instead of piling on the eyeliner, sharpening my razor and blasting Please, Please, Please Let Me Get Want I Want on repeat (all things sadly in character,) I'm going to share with you something that I find hee-larious. I think this might be one of those things that only me and Tulane Chris find funny due to our mutual inappropriate senses of humor, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume you'll appreciate it too.
So I was g-chatting with Tulane Chris the other day and not doing whatever it was Boss #1 never asked me to do when Chris started talking about an irritating friend he had in college. (No, not Terry Cooper.) Apparently one time this friend casually asked over cocktails, "So, who here has been sexually abused?" which Chris pointed out is the "WORST TEN FINGERS QUESTION EVER." This was, and still is, the funniest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. If you've never heard of The Ten Fingers Game before (clearly you didn't go to summer camp...) it's when you and a group of people get in a circle, hold out ten fingers and go around making "Never have I ever..." statements. If you've done something that someone else says they've never done, you put down a finger. First person to put down all ten fingers wins. Or loses. Or drinks. Or is a slut or something. Normally the statements are really asinine and light like, "Never have I ever broken a bone" or "Never have I ever been to Montreal," but if you're playing with close friends, it can be fun to purposely call someone out and say something like, "Never have I ever given a hand job in a public park" and look directly at the friend who has and giggle and LOLZ. However, it's a horse of an entirely different shade of hilarious if you're like, "Never have I ever...been sexually abused" and look directly at your friend who has been as she hangs her head in shame and slowly retracts a shaking finger. Chris and I then spent the rest of the afternoon imagining this game in increasingly innapropriate contexts until we created the following list. (Mine are in red and Chris' are in purple. Which has a very star-spangled effect that adds a nice little patriotic flair to the game.)
Meg & Tulane Chris' List of Grossly Inappropriate Never Have I Ever Statements:
- Never have I ever shown anyone on the doll...
- Never have I ever been a cutter in middle school because I had low self-esteem and no father figure to reinforce my value
- Never have I ever cared for you, Darla
- Never have I ever had to go to family counseling
- Never have I ever had to participate in my parents' Christian Marriage Therapy exercises
- Never have I ever been fingered at a Christian youth group overnight lock in
- Never have I ever given birth in the bathroom at prom, murdered the baby, and gone on with my evening
- Never have I ever gotten fisted and had to go onto a teen advice website to ask if I'm still technically a virgin
- Never have I ever done it "for him"
- Never had I ever had to call the cops when daddy "corrected" mommy one too many times
- Never have I ever not known I was pregnant
- Never have I ever been related to someone on Intervention
- Never have I ever been warned that this will be the last intervention
- Never have I ever uncovered buried memories
- Never have I ever slept with my therapist
- Never have I ever asked my mom if my boyfriend could move into our basement because things are getting kind of rough at home
- Never have I ever shaken a baby
- Never have I ever considered "clowning" an actual career
- Never have I ever had my tuition check for clown school bounce
- Never have I ever prayed on it
- Never have I ever attended a prayer service in which I held my hands palm-forward at chest level, closed my eyes, and swayed
- Never have I ever attended a state school
- Never have I ever really, really, really loved a woman
- Never have I ever avoided my Uncle for sexual reasons
- Never have I ever found time to be with my Uncle for sexual reasons
- Never have I ever bred dogs
- Never have I ever bred pygmy horses
- Never have I ever attended a cancer survivor support group
- Never have I ever had a job where I had to wear a pin with my name printed on it, made from a label maker
- Never have I ever had to show someone on a map where my native country is
- Never have I ever referred to camping in my trailer as "The Wilderness"
- ONCE have I ever interviewed for an office job and been hired as a dishwasher
- ONCE have I ever had sex with someone with a hearing aid, not known and then regretted it after finding out based solely on the fact that it's technically a disability
- ONCE have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Drew Barrymore
- Never have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Dr. Drew
...Yes? No? Just funny to me and Chris? Do not past go? Do not collect $100? Go directly to hell? K. Thought so. I'm gonna go get fired now.
Showing posts with label dead baby jokes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dead baby jokes. Show all posts
1.19.2010
8.11.2009
Recrap Wednesday: Homely, Unfortunate People in a Dating Situation
Ever since More to Love debuted, I've incorporated into my weekly schedule what I call "Toot Your Own Horn Tuesdays." On Toot Your Own Horn Tuesdays, I go to the gym, come home, do my nails, give myself a facial, pluck my eyebrows, watch More to Love, and for one night and one night only, allow myself to feel really, really good about myself. Last night I broke tradition. When I got home from work, I didn't go to the gym. Instead, I took a home pregnancy test because I'm a psychopath and the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon scared the ever-living shit out of me:
(FYI: generic brand pregnancy tests are 50% off at the CVS downtown on 14th street. I'm just sayin'...)
As it turns out, I am not carrying the son of God. However, any feelings of relief derived from finding out that I'm not pregnant were immediately canceled out by the realization that this just means I've gained weight. Beer bellies aren't as easy to abort as babies. Or at least they're more expensive.
And speaking of gaining weight! Last night's third episode of More to Love was rich. Rich like the chocolate fountains from which our ladies guzzle. Laura joined me in watching this week's episode and I must say, it was great watching the show with a friend. It was like sharing a really good, juicy, dirty secret with someone that you've been dying to get off your chest and then you do and you have someone to be like, "I KNOW, CRAZY RIGHT?!!??!!" with. It was cathartic.
The beginning of episode three established two things: 1.) Kristian is in love with Luke in a Psychopants McGee kind of way and 2.) I'm 99.9% sure there's a tranny in the house. Moving on...
This week was Fatty Prom 2009! HUZZAH! Luke arrives at the house and tells the girls he understands they were left out of things in high school because of their weight and he wants to be the man to make that up to them. "I think prom is a very special event that most of us missed out on," he says, "So...WILL YOU ALL GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?" BLOKAY, let's stop right there before this crazy train gets any further down the tracks. First of all, hey Luke―you're a bit of a Presumptuous Patrick for assuming that just because these gals are overweight, they must have missed out things in high school like prom, aren't ya? Because prom isn't like a pair of hot pants; you don't have to be super skinny to get in. I would venture that at least five of these ladies had the time of their lives at prom. I mean, shit! Malissa used to be a skinny, bitchy, blond chick! You know she was suckin' dick for coke all night and having the time of her life doing it!
After promposing, Luke gives each girl a box containing a gown for them to wear. And let me tell you: spangly, spangly two-by-four, can't get through the ballroom door. Although to be fair my prom dress was mildly to moderately spangly as well, so I guess I shouldn't hate. But then again I was 17, and what's being 17 for if not wearing spangles and spray tanning the outline of a Playboy bunny sticker onto your pelvis? (However, those spangles dim a bit when they're on a 24-year-old woman hurling herself at a Harland Williams sound-alike on nationally televised reality dating competition.)
So our gals get glammed up and head off to Fatty Prom 2009! Of course because absolutely none of them have an ounce of game, they all cry on Luke's shoulder and tell him the heartbreaking tale of why they never made it to prom. Some weren't asked. Some just went with friends. Some managed to bribe a date. Some went to the Waffle House on I-95 and drown their sorrows in a bottomless order of Chicken-Fried Steak washed down with a boat of gravy. Either way, Luke promises to give each girl the Prom of her dreams. Which doesn't sit right with me. Because who at the age of 20-something is still dreaming about the Prom of their dreams? As you get older, don't you realize that there's something better waiting for you than Prom? Let it go, boo. Let it go.
Back at Fatty Prom 2009, each girl gets some face-time with Luke in the form of a slow dance. Luke has to teach each girl how to slow dance, because, you know, obviously fat people have never danced in their entire life. They exist on a plane parallel to the movie Footloose where if they try to dance, John Lithgow suddenly appears and hits them about the head with a Bible and shoves a chicken wing in their mouth. I swear to god at one point Luke is shuffling a a chick back and forth and she looks down and shrieks, "Look at me! I'M DANCING!!!" What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with you?? You're fat, not paralyzed! It was at this point in the show that Laura slowly looked over at me with wide eyes and said, "I don't think these people have been rejected because of their weight. I mean, if you can shop at Macy's, it might be your personality." No truer words have ever been spoken.
Later, Emme saunters in and throws a curve ball into the evening: Luke's two best friends from college (Chase and Sam) are there! And Chase and Sam are tasked with picking a Prom Queen, who will then go on an individual date with Luke. Ah, Chase and Sam. One is the only black person in a seven-mile radius and the other has a beard and fo-hawk as big as his heart. God bless them.
After some awkward chit-chat and slow dancing, Chase and Sam pick Danielle as Prom Queen. Everyone is shocked and horrified. Specifically Luke, who as he so kindly puts it, "wouldn't ever put Danielle at the top of his list." I couldn't help but wonder if Chase and Sam chose Danielle as Prom Queen just to fuck around with their bro. But I can't let myself think that. Because it's too depressing to think that even on the show designed to make fat girls feel wanted and sexy, Danielle is still asked out as a joke.
However, Danielle isn't exactly doing herself any favors. Her one-on-one date with Luke can be nutshelled using only three words: a, fucking & catastrophe. But because I'm a sick individual, allow me to elaborate. First D-meister wouldn't shut her trap in the limo. She talked about everything and anything and nothing interesting. At one point, the following sentence actually came out of her mouth: "one time my dad dressed in drag at Sea World and that was like, AWESOME memories." (God I'm so jealous I can't say that.)
And speaking of Sea World, Luke takes Danielle to a seafood restaurant. Which is awkward because she doesn't eat seafood. WAMP, WAMP! However she does drink and, of course, eat dessert. So she proceeds to get drunk and deep throat a chocolate covered banana rolled in nuts. No, but really:
After performing sexual acts on a banana that are illegal in six states, Danielle and Luke take a romantic gondola ride. And by romantic, I mean informative and awkward. Curled up in Luke's manly man arms, she confesses that she's never been asked on a second date and is (drum roll please,) a virgin. Danielle. HELP ME HELP YOU HELP YOURSELF! For you see, a date is like a job interview. I wouldn't go into a job interview and say, "HI! My name is Meg McBlogger and I like to do as little work as humanly possible while still getting paid! Oh and I'm never on-time, steal office supplies, order personal things on the company's Peapod account and will talk shit about you on my blog! KBYE!" Because on a job interview, as on a date, you're trying to make yourself look as appealing as possible. I'm not saying to lie about yourself, I'm just saying maybe don't let your Unfortunate Flag fly quite so high. This miiiight increase your chances of getting a second date slightly.
The next day, Luke decides that he still feels so badly about Heather getting sick on their first group date, he invites her on an individual date. And let me tell you, we could all learn a thing or two from Heather about how to act on a date. Because I say god DAMN, she knocked that shit outta the park! I am now the proud captain of Team Heather, because that girl has got some GAME. Not only is she just adorable, but on the date she was breezy, engaging, funny, intelligent, didn't tell him that she can't touch a man without soiling herself, was genuine and SHE initiated the kiss. Madam...hats off to you. That is how you date.
The next night at the pre-elimination mixer, Kristian gets rull, rull creepy. She corners Luke and tells him that she's never experienced anything like this in her entire life and that he's the most amazing man she can think of "since she's been dreaming of princes and princesses and...I think I'm falling in love with you." Krazyface continues in her confessional to say that this is her "one chance at true love." To which I just want to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say: 1.) You've never experienced anything like this? You just met him. Just because someone is nice to you for once does not true love make. 2.) You are just a baby child. Of course you haven't experienced love yet. Calm down and stop trying to rush it. 3.) You sound fucking crazy right now 4.) This is not your one shot at love. I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that your vagina will not fall off after the show ends. Christ.
In the end, Luke has to eliminate four (count 'em!) four girls. His last pick comes down to Bonnie, Danielle or Kristian. Of course Luke should choose Bonnie because she loves skewered meats, compared bitch-face Christina to the smelly kid next to you in elementary school, and most importantly, hid a doddle of Luke in her cleavage and made him pick it out during the pre-elimination mixer. But, life isn't fair and he picks Krazyface Kristian. But Bonnie has the best attitude about being eliminated ever! She kind of shurgs, looks into the camera and says, "Oh wellz, I would have scared the crap out of his mom," and goes on her way. Oh Bonnie. Laura and I decided you can sit at our lunch table any day of the week. Welcome.
Final Cry Count: 10
Next week: Lauren calls out Kristian for being emotionally unstable in front of Luke! We have our first possible below the belt hookup! Luke dramatically tells Heather he needs to tell her something he's been holding back! GASP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(FYI: generic brand pregnancy tests are 50% off at the CVS downtown on 14th street. I'm just sayin'...)
As it turns out, I am not carrying the son of God. However, any feelings of relief derived from finding out that I'm not pregnant were immediately canceled out by the realization that this just means I've gained weight. Beer bellies aren't as easy to abort as babies. Or at least they're more expensive.
And speaking of gaining weight! Last night's third episode of More to Love was rich. Rich like the chocolate fountains from which our ladies guzzle. Laura joined me in watching this week's episode and I must say, it was great watching the show with a friend. It was like sharing a really good, juicy, dirty secret with someone that you've been dying to get off your chest and then you do and you have someone to be like, "I KNOW, CRAZY RIGHT?!!??!!" with. It was cathartic.
The beginning of episode three established two things: 1.) Kristian is in love with Luke in a Psychopants McGee kind of way and 2.) I'm 99.9% sure there's a tranny in the house. Moving on...
This week was Fatty Prom 2009! HUZZAH! Luke arrives at the house and tells the girls he understands they were left out of things in high school because of their weight and he wants to be the man to make that up to them. "I think prom is a very special event that most of us missed out on," he says, "So...WILL YOU ALL GO TO THE PROM WITH ME?" BLOKAY, let's stop right there before this crazy train gets any further down the tracks. First of all, hey Luke―you're a bit of a Presumptuous Patrick for assuming that just because these gals are overweight, they must have missed out things in high school like prom, aren't ya? Because prom isn't like a pair of hot pants; you don't have to be super skinny to get in. I would venture that at least five of these ladies had the time of their lives at prom. I mean, shit! Malissa used to be a skinny, bitchy, blond chick! You know she was suckin' dick for coke all night and having the time of her life doing it!
After promposing, Luke gives each girl a box containing a gown for them to wear. And let me tell you: spangly, spangly two-by-four, can't get through the ballroom door. Although to be fair my prom dress was mildly to moderately spangly as well, so I guess I shouldn't hate. But then again I was 17, and what's being 17 for if not wearing spangles and spray tanning the outline of a Playboy bunny sticker onto your pelvis? (However, those spangles dim a bit when they're on a 24-year-old woman hurling herself at a Harland Williams sound-alike on nationally televised reality dating competition.)
So our gals get glammed up and head off to Fatty Prom 2009! Of course because absolutely none of them have an ounce of game, they all cry on Luke's shoulder and tell him the heartbreaking tale of why they never made it to prom. Some weren't asked. Some just went with friends. Some managed to bribe a date. Some went to the Waffle House on I-95 and drown their sorrows in a bottomless order of Chicken-Fried Steak washed down with a boat of gravy. Either way, Luke promises to give each girl the Prom of her dreams. Which doesn't sit right with me. Because who at the age of 20-something is still dreaming about the Prom of their dreams? As you get older, don't you realize that there's something better waiting for you than Prom? Let it go, boo. Let it go.
Back at Fatty Prom 2009, each girl gets some face-time with Luke in the form of a slow dance. Luke has to teach each girl how to slow dance, because, you know, obviously fat people have never danced in their entire life. They exist on a plane parallel to the movie Footloose where if they try to dance, John Lithgow suddenly appears and hits them about the head with a Bible and shoves a chicken wing in their mouth. I swear to god at one point Luke is shuffling a a chick back and forth and she looks down and shrieks, "Look at me! I'M DANCING!!!" What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with you?? You're fat, not paralyzed! It was at this point in the show that Laura slowly looked over at me with wide eyes and said, "I don't think these people have been rejected because of their weight. I mean, if you can shop at Macy's, it might be your personality." No truer words have ever been spoken.
Later, Emme saunters in and throws a curve ball into the evening: Luke's two best friends from college (Chase and Sam) are there! And Chase and Sam are tasked with picking a Prom Queen, who will then go on an individual date with Luke. Ah, Chase and Sam. One is the only black person in a seven-mile radius and the other has a beard and fo-hawk as big as his heart. God bless them.
After some awkward chit-chat and slow dancing, Chase and Sam pick Danielle as Prom Queen. Everyone is shocked and horrified. Specifically Luke, who as he so kindly puts it, "wouldn't ever put Danielle at the top of his list." I couldn't help but wonder if Chase and Sam chose Danielle as Prom Queen just to fuck around with their bro. But I can't let myself think that. Because it's too depressing to think that even on the show designed to make fat girls feel wanted and sexy, Danielle is still asked out as a joke.
However, Danielle isn't exactly doing herself any favors. Her one-on-one date with Luke can be nutshelled using only three words: a, fucking & catastrophe. But because I'm a sick individual, allow me to elaborate. First D-meister wouldn't shut her trap in the limo. She talked about everything and anything and nothing interesting. At one point, the following sentence actually came out of her mouth: "one time my dad dressed in drag at Sea World and that was like, AWESOME memories." (God I'm so jealous I can't say that.)
And speaking of Sea World, Luke takes Danielle to a seafood restaurant. Which is awkward because she doesn't eat seafood. WAMP, WAMP! However she does drink and, of course, eat dessert. So she proceeds to get drunk and deep throat a chocolate covered banana rolled in nuts. No, but really:
The next day, Luke decides that he still feels so badly about Heather getting sick on their first group date, he invites her on an individual date. And let me tell you, we could all learn a thing or two from Heather about how to act on a date. Because I say god DAMN, she knocked that shit outta the park! I am now the proud captain of Team Heather, because that girl has got some GAME. Not only is she just adorable, but on the date she was breezy, engaging, funny, intelligent, didn't tell him that she can't touch a man without soiling herself, was genuine and SHE initiated the kiss. Madam...hats off to you. That is how you date.
The next night at the pre-elimination mixer, Kristian gets rull, rull creepy. She corners Luke and tells him that she's never experienced anything like this in her entire life and that he's the most amazing man she can think of "since she's been dreaming of princes and princesses and...I think I'm falling in love with you." Krazyface continues in her confessional to say that this is her "one chance at true love." To which I just want to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say: 1.) You've never experienced anything like this? You just met him. Just because someone is nice to you for once does not true love make. 2.) You are just a baby child. Of course you haven't experienced love yet. Calm down and stop trying to rush it. 3.) You sound fucking crazy right now 4.) This is not your one shot at love. I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that your vagina will not fall off after the show ends. Christ.
In the end, Luke has to eliminate four (count 'em!) four girls. His last pick comes down to Bonnie, Danielle or Kristian. Of course Luke should choose Bonnie because she loves skewered meats, compared bitch-face Christina to the smelly kid next to you in elementary school, and most importantly, hid a doddle of Luke in her cleavage and made him pick it out during the pre-elimination mixer. But, life isn't fair and he picks Krazyface Kristian. But Bonnie has the best attitude about being eliminated ever! She kind of shurgs, looks into the camera and says, "Oh wellz, I would have scared the crap out of his mom," and goes on her way. Oh Bonnie. Laura and I decided you can sit at our lunch table any day of the week. Welcome.
Final Cry Count: 10
Next week: Lauren calls out Kristian for being emotionally unstable in front of Luke! We have our first possible below the belt hookup! Luke dramatically tells Heather he needs to tell her something he's been holding back! GASP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I Didn't Know I Didn't Know I was Pregnant
I spent the better part of this past Sunday watching the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon on TLC and two things happened as a result:
1.) I may have gone partially blind from accidentally watching the commercial for Treeman Meets Treeman so many times.
2.) I think I'm pregnant.
Because watching the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon taught me that a combination of the following means you're 100% pregnant: morning sickness, irregular period, fatigue, headache, weight gain and moodiness.
Somewhere in the middle of the marathon, it hit me—I have all of the above. What if I'm pregnant and don't know it?! There I am, LOL-ing my pants off at these bitches while I'm knocked up six-ways-to-the-weekend myself! That would happen to me...
Let's consider the evidence:
1.) Morning Sickness: UM. I refer you to a recent post entitled "I'm too sick to blog, but I puked this up just for you," written not two weeks ago on the morning of July 27th. THE MORNING. What if I wasn't sick from my three-way with two orders of cheese fries; what if I was sick from the blatant baby setting up shop in my person? WHAT IF?!?! Also, it's currently 9:36 in the morning, and to be completely honest with you, I've felt better.
2.) Irregular period: I SKIPPED MY LAST PERIOD. (Overshare?) (Yes.) (Well, sorry, but it had to be said.)
3.) Fatigue: Hi. Have you ever met me? I'm tired literally every moment of every day. I know koala bears who sleep less than me. One time I seriously approached my mom that I had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Her reaction? "Yeah you've got CFS alright. Chronic FAT-ASS SYNDROME!" And then she proceeded to crack herself up until she was gasping for air. Whenever I bring this up with her in a, Hey remember when you said this and it scarred me for life? kind of way, instead of feeling guilty, she just re-cracks herself up and goes into a laughing fit that usually ends with, "God I'm funny!" Welp, who's laughing now grandma?!
(PS: This has nothing to do with me being pregnant, but all this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome talk makes me think of one of my favorite moments in Golden Girls history when Dorothy confronts the doctor who didn't believe she was sick when she had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. True story: towards the end of my tenure at Paper Source, my co-worker Scott and I used to recite this monologue back and forth to each other, ruffle our imaginary cowl neck sweaters (as seen at the 1:40 mark) and pee our pants laughing. And then we were told we weren't mature enough to work together anymore, so (after two years of working there) I quit. WACKY MEMORIES!)
4.) Headache: YES! And my eyes have been really dry and itchy. Allergies...or FETUS?!
5.) Weight gain: Was I not just saying I've been feeling all Fatty McGee recently?! AND! I swear to all that is good and holy, I just emailed Becca last week being like, "I've been working out like an insecure sorority girl recently and I'm toning up everywhere but my stomach, what's up with that?" I'll tell you what's up with that: can't tone a FETUS!
6.) Moodiness: I'm going to let Friday's manic drinking game prelude speak for itself. I'm also not saying that I texted Co-Blogger Chris a slew of racially charged text messages regarding Boss #2 on Friday, but I'm also not not saying that I texted Co-Blogger Chris a slew of racially charged text messages regarding Boss #2 on Friday. Tempers flared...racial slurs were utilized...housecleaning and border crossing jokes were cracked...I'm not proud.
So, 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = FETUS!
And I didn't know! AND YOU DIDN'T KNOW! All the evidence was right here in the blog and neither of us picked up on it! I'm no better than any of those other line dancing, toilet birthing, redneck accidental mothers! Humbling. I suppose I could always take a page from my own book and take a pregnancy test to find out for sure for sures, but frankly, pregnancy tests are expensive and it's a recession. There's always my Italian pregnancy test/enema, but that's one of my favorite souvenirs ever; I don't want to waste it on some fetus that's just going to come out crooked and backwards anyway.
Which reminds me, to my unborn possible fetus, I have this to say to you: you sir and or madam are on your own. Actually, I take that back. If you can survive the following that I've subjected my body to in the past three months alone, then frankly you might be a superhero and I'm keeping you around for safety purposes:
- copious amounts of alcohol
- marijuana
- muscle relaxers
- anti-depressants
- dieting
- strenuous gym work-outs
- Dee Snyder's House of Hair midnight dance parties
- carafes of coffee a day
- sushi
- hair dye
- lack of prenatal vitamins
- increase in resting my laptop on my stomach while using it laying down because I like the way it feels when it gets hot
...I don't treat my body like a temple. I treat my body like a dilapidated trailer park. So I say, game on fetus...game on. Say 'sup to your dad for me:
1.) I may have gone partially blind from accidentally watching the commercial for Treeman Meets Treeman so many times.
2.) I think I'm pregnant.
Because watching the I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant marathon taught me that a combination of the following means you're 100% pregnant: morning sickness, irregular period, fatigue, headache, weight gain and moodiness.
Somewhere in the middle of the marathon, it hit me—I have all of the above. What if I'm pregnant and don't know it?! There I am, LOL-ing my pants off at these bitches while I'm knocked up six-ways-to-the-weekend myself! That would happen to me...
Let's consider the evidence:
1.) Morning Sickness: UM. I refer you to a recent post entitled "I'm too sick to blog, but I puked this up just for you," written not two weeks ago on the morning of July 27th. THE MORNING. What if I wasn't sick from my three-way with two orders of cheese fries; what if I was sick from the blatant baby setting up shop in my person? WHAT IF?!?! Also, it's currently 9:36 in the morning, and to be completely honest with you, I've felt better.
2.) Irregular period: I SKIPPED MY LAST PERIOD. (Overshare?) (Yes.) (Well, sorry, but it had to be said.)
3.) Fatigue: Hi. Have you ever met me? I'm tired literally every moment of every day. I know koala bears who sleep less than me. One time I seriously approached my mom that I had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Her reaction? "Yeah you've got CFS alright. Chronic FAT-ASS SYNDROME!" And then she proceeded to crack herself up until she was gasping for air. Whenever I bring this up with her in a, Hey remember when you said this and it scarred me for life? kind of way, instead of feeling guilty, she just re-cracks herself up and goes into a laughing fit that usually ends with, "God I'm funny!" Welp, who's laughing now grandma?!
(PS: This has nothing to do with me being pregnant, but all this Chronic Fatigue Syndrome talk makes me think of one of my favorite moments in Golden Girls history when Dorothy confronts the doctor who didn't believe she was sick when she had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. True story: towards the end of my tenure at Paper Source, my co-worker Scott and I used to recite this monologue back and forth to each other, ruffle our imaginary cowl neck sweaters (as seen at the 1:40 mark) and pee our pants laughing. And then we were told we weren't mature enough to work together anymore, so (after two years of working there) I quit. WACKY MEMORIES!)
4.) Headache: YES! And my eyes have been really dry and itchy. Allergies...or FETUS?!
5.) Weight gain: Was I not just saying I've been feeling all Fatty McGee recently?! AND! I swear to all that is good and holy, I just emailed Becca last week being like, "I've been working out like an insecure sorority girl recently and I'm toning up everywhere but my stomach, what's up with that?" I'll tell you what's up with that: can't tone a FETUS!
6.) Moodiness: I'm going to let Friday's manic drinking game prelude speak for itself. I'm also not saying that I texted Co-Blogger Chris a slew of racially charged text messages regarding Boss #2 on Friday, but I'm also not not saying that I texted Co-Blogger Chris a slew of racially charged text messages regarding Boss #2 on Friday. Tempers flared...racial slurs were utilized...housecleaning and border crossing jokes were cracked...I'm not proud.
So, 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = FETUS!
And I didn't know! AND YOU DIDN'T KNOW! All the evidence was right here in the blog and neither of us picked up on it! I'm no better than any of those other line dancing, toilet birthing, redneck accidental mothers! Humbling. I suppose I could always take a page from my own book and take a pregnancy test to find out for sure for sures, but frankly, pregnancy tests are expensive and it's a recession. There's always my Italian pregnancy test/enema, but that's one of my favorite souvenirs ever; I don't want to waste it on some fetus that's just going to come out crooked and backwards anyway.
Which reminds me, to my unborn possible fetus, I have this to say to you: you sir and or madam are on your own. Actually, I take that back. If you can survive the following that I've subjected my body to in the past three months alone, then frankly you might be a superhero and I'm keeping you around for safety purposes:
- copious amounts of alcohol
- marijuana
- muscle relaxers
- anti-depressants
- dieting
- strenuous gym work-outs
- Dee Snyder's House of Hair midnight dance parties
- carafes of coffee a day
- sushi
- hair dye
- lack of prenatal vitamins
- increase in resting my laptop on my stomach while using it laying down because I like the way it feels when it gets hot
...I don't treat my body like a temple. I treat my body like a dilapidated trailer park. So I say, game on fetus...game on. Say 'sup to your dad for me:
5.14.2009
Evie McBlogger: best advertisment for birth control ever.
I currently have three schemes in rotation to get out of this whole "working" thing:
1.) Rehab. Every week there's a commercial during Intervention for a rehab facility that makes me want to dive into a giant swimming pool of cocaine and snort my way out. An all-expenses paid trip to Malibu where I talk about my feelings; learn to cook; enjoy some pilates and yoga; meditate and do all the arts and crafts I want doesn't sound that horrible to me. It's like summer camp for adults! Yes and please. There's only one problem: I'm not addicted to anything. (Unless you're of the Robert Palmer school of thought, in which case sign me up!)
2.) Jail. Do you know how many times I walk to work and litter, jay-walk, steal from street vendors, kill an anonymous hobo or grifter; praying to god a cop will arrest me so I can go jail and take a nap? Every single morning. Because taking a nap in jail would be preferable to coming here, where my only task is to figure out where the "dead critter" smell is coming from. That's not a joke. That really is my one and only task today. Figure out the dead critter smell. At least in jail we all know where the dead critter smell is coming from (crackhead, I'm looking at you.)
3.) Get pregnant. Did you know that in the Netherlands, both mother and father get one year paid maternity and paternity leave? How amazing is that?! Ergo, new life plan: unprotected sex -> move to Amsterdam -> eat falaffel ->Heinekin factor tour -> have baby -> 1 year paid Amsterdam vacation. Plus, I'd get a baby shower and tons of free shit. It's a recession! Can't argue with free shit!
So far option #3 had been my front-runner, but as of last night I've changed my mind. Jail is back on top. And it's all "thanks" to my parents cat, Evie.
Evie arrived at my apartment Tuesday night and I'll be cat sitting her for the next seven days while my parents are away on vacation. Originally, I was pretty psyched about this. When I moved into my parent's house after leaving New York, Evie and I pretty much became BFF4lyfe. We share a mutual love of napping and spent our days curled up on the couch in our pajamas watching MTV Hits, eating free Kashi GoLean Crunch cereal and whining at my mom to give us attention. It was awesome.
However, cat sitting her is less than awesome. She's driving me crazy. I feel like I've been given a small glimpse into the life of a new mother—and I want to claw out my eyes, close my legs and pretend like I never saw anything.
The meowing you guys, the meowing. It's got to go. All night long, she just meows. And I'm not talking gentle, adorable kitty meowing, I'm talking "Timmy fell down the well; you need to get your fuckin' ass up now," screaming/meowing. Scr-owing, if you will. She has this one kind of meow that starts with a "meo-" but ends in this deep, throat gurgle that distinctly sounds like she's telling me to eat shit.
The only way to shut her up is if I get out of bed and gently rock her in my arms like a baby. I do this and she's suddenly happy as a clam. Shuts right up and purrs her face off. HOWEVER, the second I put her down on my bed and try to go back to sleep, she freaks out, flies off my bed, jumps on top of her carrying case and scr-ows at me. So I have to physically get out of bed again, pick her up and hold her for a little while. But god forbid I get tired and want to lay down in my own bed at 2:30 in the morning! If I do that she just flicks me off, heads for her carrying case and yells derogatory things at me until I get up and hold her again. It's a vicious cycle.
I've tried everything. I tried reasoning with her. I tried begging and pleading. I tried shutting her in the bathroom (but felt bad and let her out after 30 seconds.) I put her favorite toy, Fillipe the frog, in my bed thinking that might coax her off her little soap box, but nope! There she was, atop her crate telling me to go eff myself. Then I got the genius idea to put her crate in my bed, thinking maybe that would solve something. Instead, she just stood where the crate once was, shouting at me from there. Even better, I forgot the crate was in my bed at one point and rolled over and slammed my face into the door.
I think at around 4:15ish, she finally ran out of steam and fell asleep. Two hours later my alarm clock buzzed and she woke back up. From 7-8 (aka my precious snoozing time,) she meowed. And meowed. And meowed. At that moment, I sort of understood why someone might be tempted to shake their baby like an Etch A Sketch.
I look like shit today. I didn't shower. There are circles under my eyes. I was 15 minutes late to work. This post isn't even well-written or funny. Somebody out there has to know—how do I get her to stop meowing? I can't hold her forever (L0LZ! That sounds like it should be a Maroon 5 song or something). If I ignore her, she meows louder. What do I do?!
1.) Rehab. Every week there's a commercial during Intervention for a rehab facility that makes me want to dive into a giant swimming pool of cocaine and snort my way out. An all-expenses paid trip to Malibu where I talk about my feelings; learn to cook; enjoy some pilates and yoga; meditate and do all the arts and crafts I want doesn't sound that horrible to me. It's like summer camp for adults! Yes and please. There's only one problem: I'm not addicted to anything. (Unless you're of the Robert Palmer school of thought, in which case sign me up!)
2.) Jail. Do you know how many times I walk to work and litter, jay-walk, steal from street vendors, kill an anonymous hobo or grifter; praying to god a cop will arrest me so I can go jail and take a nap? Every single morning. Because taking a nap in jail would be preferable to coming here, where my only task is to figure out where the "dead critter" smell is coming from. That's not a joke. That really is my one and only task today. Figure out the dead critter smell. At least in jail we all know where the dead critter smell is coming from (crackhead, I'm looking at you.)
3.) Get pregnant. Did you know that in the Netherlands, both mother and father get one year paid maternity and paternity leave? How amazing is that?! Ergo, new life plan: unprotected sex -> move to Amsterdam -> eat falaffel ->Heinekin factor tour -> have baby -> 1 year paid Amsterdam vacation. Plus, I'd get a baby shower and tons of free shit. It's a recession! Can't argue with free shit!
So far option #3 had been my front-runner, but as of last night I've changed my mind. Jail is back on top. And it's all "thanks" to my parents cat, Evie.
Evie arrived at my apartment Tuesday night and I'll be cat sitting her for the next seven days while my parents are away on vacation. Originally, I was pretty psyched about this. When I moved into my parent's house after leaving New York, Evie and I pretty much became BFF4lyfe. We share a mutual love of napping and spent our days curled up on the couch in our pajamas watching MTV Hits, eating free Kashi GoLean Crunch cereal and whining at my mom to give us attention. It was awesome.
However, cat sitting her is less than awesome. She's driving me crazy. I feel like I've been given a small glimpse into the life of a new mother—and I want to claw out my eyes, close my legs and pretend like I never saw anything.
The meowing you guys, the meowing. It's got to go. All night long, she just meows. And I'm not talking gentle, adorable kitty meowing, I'm talking "Timmy fell down the well; you need to get your fuckin' ass up now," screaming/meowing. Scr-owing, if you will. She has this one kind of meow that starts with a "meo-" but ends in this deep, throat gurgle that distinctly sounds like she's telling me to eat shit.
The only way to shut her up is if I get out of bed and gently rock her in my arms like a baby. I do this and she's suddenly happy as a clam. Shuts right up and purrs her face off. HOWEVER, the second I put her down on my bed and try to go back to sleep, she freaks out, flies off my bed, jumps on top of her carrying case and scr-ows at me. So I have to physically get out of bed again, pick her up and hold her for a little while. But god forbid I get tired and want to lay down in my own bed at 2:30 in the morning! If I do that she just flicks me off, heads for her carrying case and yells derogatory things at me until I get up and hold her again. It's a vicious cycle.
I've tried everything. I tried reasoning with her. I tried begging and pleading. I tried shutting her in the bathroom (but felt bad and let her out after 30 seconds.) I put her favorite toy, Fillipe the frog, in my bed thinking that might coax her off her little soap box, but nope! There she was, atop her crate telling me to go eff myself. Then I got the genius idea to put her crate in my bed, thinking maybe that would solve something. Instead, she just stood where the crate once was, shouting at me from there. Even better, I forgot the crate was in my bed at one point and rolled over and slammed my face into the door.
I think at around 4:15ish, she finally ran out of steam and fell asleep. Two hours later my alarm clock buzzed and she woke back up. From 7-8 (aka my precious snoozing time,) she meowed. And meowed. And meowed. At that moment, I sort of understood why someone might be tempted to shake their baby like an Etch A Sketch.
I look like shit today. I didn't shower. There are circles under my eyes. I was 15 minutes late to work. This post isn't even well-written or funny. Somebody out there has to know—how do I get her to stop meowing? I can't hold her forever (L0LZ! That sounds like it should be a Maroon 5 song or something). If I ignore her, she meows louder. What do I do?!
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