Blogger Widgets


WTF Friday, Episode 2

I woke up today and I knew it was gonna be a bad day, and that sucks because overall it's been a pretty awesome week.  I got up late after spending half the night trying to comfort Silly Monkey post-nightmare.  Gianormous half-naked pregnant chic folded up in a Spider Man twin bed with company... you can imagine how well I slept.  And upon waking, I was slapped in the face with the realization that, not only did I have to get the kids fed, dressed, and full, but I also had to get ready; something that has become more and more of a rarity in the recent past.  
You know how they say 'it takes a village to raise a child'? Well, it takes a village to get mommy publicly presentable.  Everyone must pitch in to make it possible for me to shower, slap on some make-up, and hopefully get pants on.  So it is a pain in the derriere for all involved.  And what's worse, is that we all had to go through this hullabaloo so I could go to my incompetent doctor's office to shell out $350 for a repeat ultrasound I had done two weeks ago because the crack-addict technician "forgot" to get images of the spine.  Say what?  The spine?  Kinda important dontchya think? 
  I am about as frustrated and angry as a girl can get.  I've done this baby thing twice before, so I know a thing or two about how this prenatal care thing works; what to expect, what tests I need, what precautions they need to take because of my personal medical history, etc..  But I have been astounded throughout this whole pregnancy at the ineptitude of these doctors and their employees.  To date I have seen four different doctors at the same frickin' office since this pregnancy began.  Last time I ranted about it in my Drunk Mommy post, there were three.  Now a new one apparently graduated from North Venezuela  Universidad of Medicine and Taxidermy and joined the shop so, "let me test out this specula on you, Ms. Martini". 
And because I have been tossed around like a damn Raggedy Andy doll, I have now been required to take two different unnecessary tests because they can't get their heads out of their asses.  And the tests keep coming.  Today was the last straw.
As I  am checking out the gal says, "So we need to schedule your 1 hour glucola test". 
OMG!  I almost punched her. "I had that last week". 
Typing, typing, typing, type, type, type. Clickity, clickity, click, click,, click.
 "Looks like they requested an early glucose test; they do that when they know you're a diabetic". 
Me: "Yeah, I'm not".
  "And we need to schedule your blah, blah, blah and your Rhogam shot.  I don't know why they didn't do that when you had your glucola.  That's typically when they do that.  I'll find out".
"Yes, why don't you go do that"?  Me getting pissy because I have now spent 10 minutes dealing with this crotchbiscut, and Mr. Martini has an appointment that actual makes money rather than wastes it.  
So I wait. And I wait.  I read a weeks worth of Tweets, I respond to six emails, set up a hair appointment, get a back massage from one of those traveling back massage guy-people at the mall, ordered some take-out, watched an episode of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, got my legs waxed, donated blood, adopted a puppy, got an A+ at puppy obedience school, ordered a Diamonique ring from QVC, returned it, and drank a latte. 
FINALLY that bitch came back, with back-up.  Nurse who-the-hell-are-you tells me that I now need to take yet ANOTHER glucose test, along with badonka donk, and I need to get a badinky dink.  And I can have this all done at the hospital at my convenience, but I should come back Monday for my shot.
"Cool", I said.
 "Oh, and yeah, I'd like a medical records release form because I am never coming back to this friggin' circus again". 
And I'm not, Yo.  Not never, not no how.


10 Things I Wish I Knew Before I Got Pregnant

There are a few things I wish I knew before I got pregnant.  Not that any of that would have made a difference since I was shagging like 6 times a day and that baby was bound to happen, but being prepared is always nice. 

1)  Shagging 6 times a day STOPS.  Immediately. Guys are afraid that their manhood will stab the fetus in the heart and thus destroy said fetus.  Or they fear the baby "will know". And what?  Get jealous?  Whatevs.  Sex stops, and it sucks, because...

2)  You become hornier than any teenage boy has ever been in his life.  The mailbox makes you want to go to pleasure town.  Seeing a shoe will literally result in swollen genitals.  And don't even bother going through the vegetable aisle.  And all this raging sexual desire is fruitless because of 1) and...

3)  You get so big you can't see your crotch, let alone reach it.  This is bad for any chance at rectifying 1) or taming 2), because no one wants to go down there if it hasn't been treated like a lady in months (and thus looks like something out of a 70's porn) and you can't even take care of yourself in the shower 'cause, well, you can't reach it.

4)  Your lady parts will never. NEVER.  Be the same.  They cut you!!!  Did you hear me, ladies? THEY WILL CUT THAT SHIT!!  And that's only if you're lucky enough to have a nice doctor who doesn't let you rip.  ARE YOU HEARING THIS?? RIP!!  As in tear, like a piece of toilet paper.  Your vag.  Broken. OMG... I'm re-living it...

5)  If you are super lucky, you won't get stretch marks (believe it... I didn't get them with number 1).  But your snotty "I didn't get stretch marks" highfalutin ass will be brow-beaten by God with number two.  And they don't go away.  And you get them EVERYWHERE.  Not just on the tummy... oh no.  On your boobs, your thighs, your back....  You become a giant web of glossy pink and white hot mess.  And you stay that way.  FOREVER.  Self tanner ain't gonna hide this mess; you're just screwed.  Might as well trade in that bikini for a burka, 'cause ain't nobody want to see that shake.  Which, as you can imagine, does not bode well for fixing your sexless, pathetic, torn vag ego. Which brings me to...

6)  You will cry.  A lot.  For no reason.  Everyday.  Justin Bieber comes on the radio: sob fest.  You smell popcorn: tears of self loathing. You try to fit in your fat pants: OMG, that one still makes me tear up.

7)  Upon birthing you realize, Holy Donuts Batman!  What did we do!!!  Who the hell decided I was qualified for this?  I am in no condition to take care of someone else! And panic ensues.  And this is okay because...

8) You will never get to sleep again, so you can go ahead and spend every hour of every day worrying about your new baby.  This is God's plan.  It sucks for you, because it ensures you will never be able to fix your hot mess of a body because any ounce of energy not spent on your bundle of joy will be spent trying not to pass out from exhaustion.

9) You will become judgmental of other people's parenting because you will think you are perfect and everyone else is crap.  And you will, in most cases, need to learn to take your head out of your ass.  I didn't really learn this until I had number 2, and I'm still working on it.  But realizing there is always room for improvement will help you be a better mom.  I'm being serious.

10) That the world will revolve around someone else for the first time in your narcissistic, self involved life. Those Loubou's you would have purchased are now plastic super heroes and bunk beds.  The romantic trip you planned to take to Paris for your anniversary will become a Disney cruise complete with obnoxious music, sweaty grandparents,  and candy-induced vomit.  Oh, and that weekly girl's night out will become tea-party Tuesday, and you will be required to wear a feather boa, a velvet hat, and speak with a silly Mary Poppins tone. 

And you will look back at all of it and think, huh? That wasn't so bad after all.

Posted inspired by Theme Thursday at:

Halloween Heartbreak

Last night was Halloween, and all the crazies came out to play.  And by crazies, I mean my family. First let me say, I had no idea there were so many kids in this neighborhood.  It looked like a Wiggles concert headlined by Justin Bieber.  Droves of chilluns, everywhere.  Which was awesome to see because I was under the impression our neighborhood was filled with retirees and squatter whinos.  But perhaps that's just because it's hard to see out the windows when your blinds are always shut.  In other words, I assume because I am kind of both.  Whino for sure.  Retired; at least according to my bank account. 

So on the plus side, normal families "just like mine" surround us.  The bad part is, this really makes our impending move that much more difficult to accept. We've been living in this house for 1 year, and have been trying to sell it with renters in it for 2 1/2 years.  Finally, we decided screw it... the only way to unload this thing is to kick out the free-basers and move in, clean it up and hope for a miracle.  So we've spent the last year painting and decorating, cleaning and plastering. We listed it on a Thursday and had an accepted offer on Monday.  Holy Bat Balls Spider Man!  Was not expecting that to happen so fast.  So now we're moving. Which is good because my husband has a 3 hour commute everyday.  And I really can't wait to get back to a place that resembles Suburban-Strip Mall-land  as opposed to Hillfolk Heaven.  So, yeah... time to shove off.  But now I feel rotten about it.

Coupled with our neighborhood not being as ghetto as I thought, Silly Monkey has a best friend.  Like 'the best friend you ever had in your life' best friend.  They are two peas in a pod, peanut butter and jelly, rum and coke.  They are just meant to be.  And it's really the only friend my monkey has ever really had.  And now I am going to break them up. And it's gonna be baaad.  Bad like when Princess Di and Charles broke up.  Like when that crazy-ass Tom Cruise and Nicole broke-up (before we knew Tom was a loon).  Like Kim Kardashian and that Kris guy.  We're talking epic.  Mr. Martini and I are all forclempt about it. 

So of course, in my uber-sensitive way, as I'm telling Mr. Martini about all the antics that went on during Trick or Treat (he of course missed it because he was driving from work, i.e. Timbuktu), I get all syrupy about the impending heartbreak.  Which leads to guilt, fear, and sheer panic.  What if this scars him for life?  What if he never recovers?  He'll walk in his new school, and everyone will know everyone, and every one will know the routine and he'll be all alone.  OMG!!!  What are we doing?  We can afford the $400 in gas every month, right?  We can just bunk all 3 kids together in their tiny little room when the next one gets here, right?  We can teach our kids to hold their breath as a precautionary measure when we take our weekly outing to the highest-class store in town, Walmart, right?  We can make this Hillbilly Hell work for us.  We can do it.

However, I have dreams of my boys playing hockey, or football, or jousting.  The FFA is not on my priority list.  I'm from a city.  My husband was born and raised in LA for Pete's sake.  Learning to hog-tie is something they should learn in the privacy of their frat house, not in actual school.  We gotta go.

But I'm dying inside.  And Silly Monkey #2's mom and I have discussed how we'll get them together as often as possible for sleepovers and such, but I know that won't last.  Two, three times at most.  And then what?  Will Silly Monkey just get over his first friend and move on?  Ugh. This sucks.

Anyone else out there have to go through this torture? How did you deal?  How did your kids deal?  Should we give him a new toy everyday for the next three months?  Get a therapist?  Help!!


Buttery Goodness Gotchya Feelin' Sick? DUH!!!

Okay, I am not one who will sit and judge another's choice about what to feed their kid.  I screwed up Silly Monkey when it comes to food stuffs, there is no doubt.  I was so afraid to feed him solid foods because I thought he would choke, that by the time he started actually eating, he latched on to chicken nuggets (now chicken in finger form prepared by mom is acceptable) and would not, under any circumstances try anything new.  Take away toys, go to be without dinner, reward, punishment... the list goes on, and the stress was unbearable.  Eat your damn pink sludge formed into dinosaur shapes.  What the hell.  I give up.  But we have not made the same mistake with mini-monkey (thankfully).  

I do try to be cognizant of what is going into our mouths.  We don't use artificial sweeteners because I am afraid they will turn into their toxic component parts during digestion and embalm my family just as they are enjoying that low-calorie ice cream.  We don't eat food out of a box. Okay, the kids do sometimes, but they're kids and who cares?  They have years to make up for the bad choices I have made on their behalf.  Mr. Martini and I could be so lucky. We've got 10, maybe 15 years until our livers quit, screaming "YOLO!!" as they shrivel into tiny gourds of what was once healthy living tissue.  But I know that.  I am aware I make bad choices when I make them.  I make them anyway, but I know it.  I am in control.

And then there Wayne Watson,  who wins $7.2 million dollars because (gasp!) he got sick after eating crap for 15 years.

Wayne Watson, demonstrating for the jury how he'd stuff his face into a bag of popcorn every 3 hours

"Popcorn Lung" is an obstructive lung disease that makes it difficult for air to flow out of the lungs and is irreversible, according to WebMD.  Hey, here's a thought... maybe, sitting on your badonka donk everyday consuming 3 bags of fat-flavored popcorn for 15 years squished your lungs into tiny grapes that struggle for blessed oxygen.  I'm no doctor, but I can pretty much say with authority that if I ate 3 bags of chips, snicker bars, ho ho's or what have you everyday for 15 years, my breathing would get obstructed too.  Unless of course I ran marathons for a living.  It is not butter flavoring that made you sick, dumbass.  It's just that you're a dumbass, dumbass.  A dumbass who is as rich as the wind is nippy because a group of twelve other dumbasses decided to fight the power and stick it to the snack-food man.

Now I get that there is some cause for concern regarding diacetyl, the chemical at the heart of this craziness.  And it seriously makes me consider if I should stop giving Silly Monkey 3 bags of popcorn a day.  But to reward a guy with such an incredible lack of judgment or concern about his own health that he would stuff his face with chemicals all day, everyday, for 5,475 days is repulsive.  He should be required to spread the word about poor decision-making to children across the country. "See kids, I'm rich bitch, but I'm dying 'cause I didn't eat my vegetables". 

I am totally going to sue Jack Daniels.

So what do you think?  Do you think justice was served in this case?  Was his argument legitimate?  I want to hear your thoughts!


God Works in Mysterious Ways

Turns out, I am incredibly good at getting new stuff when I want it.  The problem is, I just don't know that I want it until I get it. 

First:  Mr. Martini says God works through him via his temper.  See, he kind of has a bad temper.  Kind of like a 3 year old with too much testosterone.  I love him with all my heart, but when poop hits the fan in my house, poop may actually hit the fan (which brings me to my next post re: poopy flushable wipes on my bathroom counter every god damned day.  Seriously kid, they are flushable!!! Just like TP, but pre-moistened).  But God works in mysterious ways.

Second:  So I had this laptop right?  And I said something to Mr. Martini about being "inept" at something.  Bad choice of words, I know.  And probably just plain crappy.  But hey, I'm knocked up which = crazy.   So, I'll be getting a new laptop soon. 

Thank you God.

Not to get demanding or anything, but can you also please help my son put his poopy wipes in the toilet?


Smart Car, Stupid Driver

Yesterday I spent the day traipsing around Indianapolis with my family frantically looking at houses, since we will be homeless in approximately 1 month. Selling your house is AWESOME, but being homeless; not so much.

In any event, I came across this gem while driving down the 465 freeway. If you know me, you know I hate a Smart Car. Boy do they piss me off, and their owners piss me off even more. I mean I get owning a car for the pure ridiculousness of it, and hey, if you can't ride your scooter, you might as well have something equally stupid, tiny, and light to get you around, right?  But here's a hint to all you Smart Car owners: We all see your car is tiny, and we all make judgements about your manhood. Hanging a big set of balls to your exhaust does not make you more of a man. It makes you look like a douchebag in a Smart Car with small penis syndrome.

SmartCar bIg balls
SmartCar, Big Ballin'.

Share The Crazy!!!