Category Archives: why I drink

Why Sharing a Birthday Stinks

An Open Letter to Bright House Networks

Dear Bright House Networks,

To put it succinctly: you suck.

Our tumultuous relationship has endured so many problems throughout the years I have had to repress memories like an abused girlfriend. From the cable going out during the Superbowl to home phone service disappearing while I had a jaundiced newborn, your crappy customer service and constantly inconsistent internet peculiarities are slowly driving me insane. And help keep my local wine store in business (I should investigate if you own any of their stock).

I know I don’t call you as often as should. I don’t call at 10 p.m. when the only channel I want to watch is suddenly unavailable because I know I won’t get to sleep for hours; instead I’ll be replaying my fight with the cranky swing shift service rep desperately in need of a Red Bull.

I don’t call when the TV guide channel mysteriously disappears for days leaving me no freaking idea what is on my 70 to 150 channels (depending on the day, the particular television set and your mood).

I don’t call when the box resets during the season finale of my favorite show or when my child has an absolute meltdown as he discovers his favorite channel has been suddenly dropped from your ever-changing line-up. I should require one of your reps take him to Chuck E. Cheese so I don’t have to deal with his tears.

I don’t call when the phone goes out in the middle of a conversation. It actually comes in handy when talking to certain family members and it would be brilliant if I had bill collectors calling. I don’t use the home phone much anyway but I did just use up 96 minutes of my stingy cell phone plan dealing with your incompetent minions. You can take that off my rapidly rising bill.

Two hours of my life were just wasted by your untrained internet support team. Two hours I should have spent working (or at least pretend to). Two hours during which I had a feverish child calling for a Popsicle and juice while I was trapped underneath my desk tangled in a pile of wires with a phone squished to my shoulder and a flashlight propped under my chin. And I understand it is not your fault I do not regularly clean below my computer tower, but thanks for ruining my cute white capri pants anyway.

Yes, I do know how to check if my computer is actually on. And why yes, I did reset my modem, just as I have had to do countless times before when your services have screwed up. Thanks so much for making me disconnect my wireless router when you didn’t know how to reconnect it so I then had no wireless service AT ALL. My husband will be thrilled when he comes home and cannot get any work done on his laptop. No biggie. I’m sure he won’t mind driving back to his office for a few more hours. No, I cannot call the router manufacturer; it WAS working before I called you, just slowly. YOU screwed it up. YOU need to fix it. No, I will NOT have a nice afternoon.

Two customer service reps later (they were at least here in the U.S. not Mumbai) and I had your touch and go crappy internet service running once more. Isn’t this what you pay service technicians to do? I’d like my $25 an hour for technical services I provided please. You can take that off my bill also.

Then there is that little issue about your billing. You are not selling used cars. There is no reason my neighbor should be paying less and getting more services. I have good credit and I have paid my bill on time for over ten freaking years. Do not make me turn on my car-haggling-bitch mode. You do not want to go there. I know you pretty much have a monopoly over this whole phone/internet/TV scam, but I am tired of being screwed. I feel dirty and used after I deal with you.

Bright House, I would not take this crap from any person (especially one not related by blood). I think it is well past time we terminate our volatile and contemptuous relationship. I deserve better. And you owe me a case of wine for my troubles.

Sincerely,
(who am I kidding…I’m just being polite)

A Soon-to-be Ex-Bright House Customer

P.S.

I found it absolutely delightful your automated customer service just called as I was writing this to take up more of my time with a survey. Just so you are clear about my answers:

Was I satisfied with my Bright House services? Utterly and Completely Dissatisfied.

Was I satisfied with the knowledge demonstrated by the technicians? Who are you kidding? I know you recorded the conversations. Completely Dissatisfied.

Please rate your overall Bright House experience. I think I made myself clear with the FIFTH rep I yelled at earlier. Are you stupid? Completely Dissatisfied.

How likely are you to recommend Bright House services to others? Baby, I’m telling as many potential customers as possible how much you suck. Unless you can do some major ass kissing, our relationship is OVER.

{click}

The Simple Things…Boys are Mess Magnets

20 Replies

I had no idea what I was getting into when I gave birth to a wiggling, peeing on the OB yet still absolutely amazing baby boy. As I have already discussed, I always assumed I would have a girl and our lives would be filled with antique baby dolls, vintage Barbies, tutus, fairy tale books, and of course, a few messes and scrapes when she embraced her inner Tom-boy.

Nope. Not happening here.

I have a boy and boys are mud magnets. Now I do have to say, Kiddo is pretty well behaved and I run a tight ship around here, but there is just no way he can avoid messes.

I have learned to laugh instead of yell, to grab the camera while I catch my breath and sometimes slowly count to 10. The mess will be cleaned up. The memory will last forever. Sometimes the simple things are the snapshots of life that stick with you forever…

After baby powdering his entire bedroom age 2 1/2.

King of the mud age 3 1/2.


Hanging in his “mud hot tub” at 5.

Sometimes it’s just the simple things that keep us smiling…

Think Kiddo is the messiest kid? I do, so I’m linking up with Jessica at Four Plus an Angel for her messiest kid contest.

Florence + Flowing Skirts + No Fights = Fab Night

1 Reply

{Not me}

{Me}

After wasting an afternoon ~~playing fatter, wrinkly Barbie doll~~ attempting to find something hip yet age appropriate to wear to the Florence + the Machine concert (then embarrassing myself by posting my options online) I did what women usually do when suffering from a wardrobe crisis: I went shopping. I kicked all the outfits back into the dark recesses of my over-stuffed closet. I bought new dress. It was inexpensive. It was pretty. I didn’t have to pick out accessories. It made me feel good. Perfect.

The Hubby and I slogged through rush hour traffic in the rain and eventually made it to the tourist side of town. As we ran through Universal CityWalk we placated ourselves with dreams of a fabulous show and cold beer. Yes, I said beer. Wine is for home appreciation, good food, the Opera, and upscale bars. Beer is for concerts, NASCAR, and our English Pub.

Once inside the Hard Rock we slithered our way through the crowd to find the ~~perfect~~ best available floor space. I needed a clear view of the stage. I needed to have room to dance. And I needed to have no assholes in my direct vicinity.

Hubby claims I am an asshole magnet at concerts. There is almost always some jerk who feels it is necessary to completely invade my personal space, yell over the music to his asshat buddy or into his phone, spill beer down my back, and accidentally grope me repeatedly. Though I am shy and timid in everyday life, don’t f@ck with me at a concert. I simply will not put up with that sh$t.

Until very recently, I never though much about what I wore to shows. Standard uniform was black tank (velvet, sparkly, or vintage rock band), jeans and big black boots. Beer + big black boots = bravery. Get into my space and I would stomp you like fine grapes in a barrel. If someone dared to get pushy I would bum a cigarette and use it as a prop; a few burns and they would scurry away. Worked every time.

But now I wear heels or occasionally flip flops if it’s raining or an outdoor show. Stomping doesn’t work nearly as well. No one can light anything in doors anymore (which is nice because I hated coming home smelling like an ashtray). And I am with my Hubby who wants to be The Man standing up for his woman, but can’t really get involved. He’d be fired in a heartbeat if he was ever arrested for fighting. So I am on the lookout to avoid assholes and trouble. We stood five feet from security. I felt like such a grown-up.

{not Me, buy MY hair}

I did get a couple of “nice hair” comments and stares on the way to the bar and bathroom. Florence Welch, the lead chanteuse/siren, has my hair. I’m older, therefore it was mine first. I thank her everyday for making my I’m too lazy to straiten my waves in this humidity hairdo stylish.

The audience for Florence was mixed: emo teens, hipster adults sporting glasses and flannels, and a profusion of women. Many holding hands. Many whom I first thought were flannel-shirted hipster guys (sorry). Hubby surveyed the crowd and informed me point blank, “You are NOT allowed to get in a fight with a dyke tonight.” Nothing against lesbians whatsoever; most of them could have chewed me up and spit me out without blinking a mascara-free eye. Would not have made a fun night.

An Amazon stood in front of us with a child about Kiddo’s size. He was falling asleep at her feet. I don’t mind kids at concerts (we took Kiddo to see Paul McCartney last year) but not when it’s a sold out, standing room only venue. The poor thing was hugging his lovey and fighting to keep his eyes open. I feared he would be mashed into rock show road-kill.

As the floor filled around us, a perky, pig-tailed and bejeweled 40-something bumped into me. When I whipped around she hugged me and shoved her ten-year-old between us, raving about how he just looovveed Florence + the Machine.

Our one night out and we were surrounded by kids. Not funny, Karma.

Once the the band took the stage everything around us was forgotten. Florence Welch enchanted the crowds with her powerful pipes, haunting lyrics, and sheer Gucci-goes-goth get-up (see hot pants). Her gauzy costume floated across the stage as she whirled and danced like an ethereal pagan goddess while belting out tunes such as The Dog Days Are Over, Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up), and Howl. The band was tight; her vocals pounded through the venue and mesmerized the awe-struck audience.

Florence + the Machine is one of the few bands who truly sound great live. Florence proved how the award-winning debut album Lungs earned its title: she has one hell of a set of them. Beautiful. Ethereal. Utterly fabulous.

Hubby left with a huge crush on Florence Welch. Which I suppose I can deal with; when we looked up the YouTube videos of the show Kiddo raved how she looks just like me. Well, maybe if I was ten years younger, taller, thinner, had legs up to my armpits, and could carry a tune anywhere besides the shower. It’s nice to dream…

If you haven’t listened to them, give them a try.

Like my stuff? Give me a click:

An Open Letter to My Child Regarding His Latest Obsession: Flipping the Bird

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Dear Kiddo,

You know I love every cell in your beautiful, rapidly growing body from the tiny mole on your foot to the Molluscum bumps on your chin. I love you when you are being an absolute angel snuggled up to me covering me with kisses and I love you when you hose down the bathroom with errant pee. {You just may not realize my screams and rants are words of love and devotion.} But I do, I swear. Always and forever no matter what.

But I have to tell you, this middle-finger obsession is driving me too close to the brink of sanity.


{Not MY child}

I wish I knew which rotten little ruffian thought he was so cool when he flipped the bird on the school playground last month and exposed innocent children to this crude and obscene gesture. I have a strange desire to coat that brat’s finger with industrial strength Bengay. So he’d have to leave it up. For a long time.

Ever since that day you have a flagrant obsession with everything touching, brushing, bending, or grazing either of your tiny middle digits.

At least 25 times a day (and sometimes 25 times an hour) you come racing over to me, trying to rat yourself out by questioning the appropriateness of your hand gesture.

Mommy, I touched the table and my middle finger was a little higher than my other fingers. I that okay?

Mommy, I was scratching and my middle finger stayed on my arm longer. Is that okay?

Mommy, I was in the shower and the soap slipped out of my hand and my middle finger came up a little…

Mommy, uh, I was eating my sandwich and some jelly got on my middle finger and I licked it off so it was up and…

Mommy, I was peeing and my middle finger was on top, so it was higher than my other fingers…

And several times a day:

Mommy, uhm, I was thinking about my middle finger and…

STOP IT. I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT ANYMORE.

For the life of me, I cannot figure out why you are hell-bent on ratting yourself out.

In the beginning I was patient and kind. I gently answered each and every redundant question. I have told you IT’S OKAY at least a thousand times by now.

No, you are NOT giving anyone the highway salute, the Bronx salute, the one-finger salute, the bird (as in giving, flipping, or flying the bird), or flipping off someone. You are NOT IN TROUBLE.

I do apologize for the day when I kind of lost it after you told me about your finger for the 68th time and I finally showed you explicitly what you are not allowed to do. I flipped you a perfect, intentional bird. And told you not to do this EXACT GESTURE to someone. That’s it. If you are not doing that exact gesture you are golden. The end.

But you still refuse to let it sink in.

You are a good-hearted and very intelligent 7 1/2 year-old. You can read Harry Potter. You are nearly at my level in math. Just don’t flip anyone the bird.

Tell me all about your day at school or at camp. I want to hear every detail of why Obi-Wan can wield a lightsaber better than Anakin (or is it vice-versa?) or how Sponge Bob can fart bubbles or how the kid in your group eats his boogers, but please, I beg you, not another freaking word about your middle finger.

Or I may have to tape your fingers together like you asked me to do last week.

What Does My Inner Rock Goddess Wear?

8 Replies

Do I want to look like a clubbing queen, a rock star, a fashionista, ~~a SAHM~~, or an ethereal goddess? Thursday night the Kiddo is staying home and Hubby and I get to hit the Hard Rock to see a sold out Florence + the Machine concert. We haven’t been out in ages. And I am having a wardrobe crisis.

As a SAHM/blogger/writer I don’t get out much, but I ~~like~~ adore clothes. My closets and drawers are overflowing, and yes, there are many items I have never worn. Not the everyday boring stuff like yoga pants and tanks to wear to the gym and errands after if (I don’t feel to bloated and lumpy in the clingy clothes), shorts and tanks, skirts and tanks, and almost always flip flops.

The day I wore a pencil skirt and red wedge sandals to the grocery store I was stared at as if I had grown a third breast and a tail. It just isn’t done at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning around here.

So going out–and to a rock concert at that–makes for some major wardrobe decisions. I’m going to drink beer and dance my ass off. And I need to be able to stand for hours, so comfy shoes are essential.

Adding to the challenge is this week’s temperatures in the upper 90’s. Take a couple of thousand sweaty and drunk bodies dancing and bouncing against each other on top of that and it’s going to be ridiculously hot. No jeans, no pants, no sleeves allowed. And prey it doesn’t rain.

Two hours wasted playing a racier grown-up version of dress-up and I still don’t know what the hell I’m wearing.

Finding the perfect balance of hot but not slutty, hip but not like I raided my hypothetical teenage daugher’s closet is hard freakin work.

Do I show off lots of leg with black hot pants and a sleek black top? Too short? I spent twenty minutes staring at the back of my legs searching for cellulite.

Too black?

I find an irridescent emerald green top and belt it tigh around the waist. Damn, the Victoria’s Secret bombshell bra (aka boob job in a box) makes me feel like a stripper. But the green sets of my red hair and makes my eyes glow–awesome. An infuriating line of ruffles going down the center has got to go. I spend a half hour cutting the huge ruffle off and try it back on.

But my parents are babysitting. My Dad will pitch a fit if I walk out the door in heels and hot pants. Next.

How about a sexy but classy black dress? Hmmm, lots of cleavage and skims my sides just right, but it comes down just past my knees. I feel too respectable. And old. Next.

Why don’t I go long? I slide on a black halter maxi dress. I feel mature. {sigh} But it could work.

Another black dress (why do I have so many?) discarded. Clingy but neckline is too boring.

I try on a green halter top maxi dress with a patterend flowy skirt. Hmm… I pin a flower in my hair. I look pretty, not like a rock star. Do I want to do pretty? Will I dance on my skirt hem?

I find a vintage silk skirt covered with Warhol’s Cambell’s Soup cans. Interesting. Love this piece but I have never had any place to wear it–it’s dayglow colors just scream “stare at me.” I try pulling it up to make it a strapless dress–nah, too blousy. I pair it with a salmon strappy tank top–interesting. Very comfortable. Does nothing for my hair or eyes.

But the show is sold out. We are going to be packed in there like oily tinned sardines. No one will even be able to see my skirt. So it’s all about the top and staying cool, right?

Tops…how about the Asian halter with a pencil skirt? Or the black trapeze with the annoyingly flowy middle but interesting shoulder straps? Ugh, it makes me look as if I am knocked-up with a beer in hand.

And why do I even care? It’s not like I’m trying to pick up a date. Hubby already thinks I’m a catch (and if he didn’t tough luck–he’s stuck with me).

Sometimes I hate being a woman. These outfits all suck. I’m too old and boring and it seems my smoking hot rock goddess jumped ship years ago. Maybe I’ll just shove it all back in the closet and wear shorts and flip flops.

What do you think? Help a girlfriend out, please…..

Why I Can’t Find a REAL Job {Part 1}

26 Replies

It’s no big secret that I have been hunting for a job to supplement our income and give me a bit of my own life back.

I’ve only applied for five jobs so far but my phone has yet to ring with opportunity. Perhaps it’s time to start applying for the jobs listed below. All are real and unedited jobs(except to remove locations and numbers) I found on my local Craigslist yesterday.

Don’t blame the lack of grammar or morals on me…

Bikini Carwash

We are now hiring girls to wash and detail cars in their bikinis.. If you are pretty, look good in your bikini, are loud, have a flirty attitude, and can stand in the sun all day we want you!!!!
We are Rise & Shine Carwash located at XXXX at the Citgo gas station at the corner of Old XX Highway. We have two shifts 11-3 & 3-7.. or you can work all day!!
You will make all of your tips which range anywhere from 20$- 100$ a day… Its really up to you.. if you need are serious please respond to my add with the days and times that you are available
and a picture so i know what you look like and I will respond with my phone number…. Talk to you soon

Compensation: Tips..$40.00-$ 100.00 per day

seeking apprentice for body modification

for any or all of these fields:
Piercing
3D Body Implants
Branding Ear Pointing
Shaped Punches
Transdermal Implants
I’m a very motivated, dependable and reliable person. This is a path that I would like to otake to help shape the rest of my life. Please contact me with anything you think may be of interest to me.
compensation: n/a

ATTRACTIVE LADIES WITH COMMUNICATION SKILLS MAKE A $1000.00 WEEKLY

Growing company looking for attractive women between the ages of 18-35 to work for our bikini maid services…You can make your own schedule and we have morning, afternoons, and night shifts available. The job consist of performing light house chores. You can make a $1000 plus tips a week working part time!!! Serious applicants please send us a pictures of your face and full body!! NO NUDE Pictures necessary!!!If you have any other questions don’t hesitate to ask…

Body wax\bleaching assistant needed

I am looking for an assistant. I have been doing bodywaxing for over 11 years. I am slowly expanding my business. I’m also looking for volunteers to train on with students. I am willing to pay the volunteers for their time. I work in and cater to the adult industry so my assistant would have to be ok in that setting. It pays from $300- $500 a week. No experience necessary I will train.(ladies only)

Cleaning/Janitorial

A CLEANING COMPANY F IS IN NEED OF 2 PERSONS MEN and WOMAN PREFER IF THEY ARE HUSBAND AND WIFE TEAMS. DUTIES ARE TRASH COLLECTION, SWEPT FLOORS, DUSTING,VACCUM CARPET CLEANING, AND ABOUTH TWISE A YEAR CARPET TREATMENT EXPERIENCE AND STRIPP AND WAX EXPERIENCE REQUIRE HAVE OWN TRANSPORTATION., NEED GOOD DRIVING RECORD. BACKGROUND CHECK.
THIS IS A PART TIME BASE ON 2 OR 3 HOUR DEPENDING IN YOUR SKILLS
PREFER IF LIVE CLOSED TO THE JOB SITE THE HOURS START AT 8:00PM
NO ALARM SETTING CODE.,ONLY KEYS FOR ACCES
PLEASE LIVE ME A TEXT. MESSAGE AT xxxxxxxxx BE ESPESIFIC ON THE TEXT,IF LIVE CLOSED BY HOW FAR.,IF HAVE TRANSPORTATION.,IF HAVE EXPERIENCE
Compensation: $7.50 AN HOUR X 2 OR 3 HOUR A DAY X 7 DAYS A WEEK

Experienced Pet Bather

All Creatures Pet Grooming is looking for an experienced pet bather. Must have worked in the field for 2 years, have knowledge with ear flushing, gland expression, and different skin problems. Part time

Compensation: $9-10 per hour

female model or like model

Seeking a female model or like model that wants to suppliment her income or is looking for a great supporter. Must be intelligent, highly independent lifestyle, classy and single, be willing to travel occassionally, and ready to climb the ladder of success, whatever it may take…someone motivated to succeed in life. Please email photo.
I need only real people, fakes and criminals keep out.

Compensation: TO DISCUSS

Real Couples for TV show $$

Divorce Court is looking for married couples on the verge of divorce, or feuding couples that have been living together for at least 3 years. If you are a great talker, and want to bring your story to our show, please call us. Both sides have to participate. We will pay 570 dollars for each side in the argument, and we will cover your flight and hotel in Los Angeles. We want your story ASAP!

Compensation: $570 per person

I wonder if I could get a call back from any of these jobs? Doubtful. Maybe I should send a bikini shot along with my next resume…

Why I Deserve My Mommy Wine…And So Do You

37 Replies

First came The Wine Sisterhood, Girl’s Night Out, Working Girl Wines, and Little Black Dress: sassy wines with snazzy labels targeting the growing women’s wine market. Then came Mad Housewife, Mommy’s Time Out, and Mommy Juice: wines marketed towards not just women but {gasp} Mothers.

Why are Mommy Wines such a hot button issue?

The big brouhaha is over Mom wines has me in a sober stupor. I was overjoyed the first time I ever spotted a bottle of Mad Housewife as I pushed my shopping cart full of toilet paper and a testy toddler through my local grocery store. It might as well have been illuminated by a ray from heaven. How did they know I was a mad housewife? They must have made it just for me. I immediately popped a bottle of chardonnay in between the applesauce and fruit snacks even though it blew my grocery budget. I didn’t care. I deserved a treat too.

Now, don’t worry. I didn’t rush home, leave the groceries in the trunk and plop Kiddo in a playpen in front of Baby Einstein while I cracked open the bottle and downed it in one goldfish bowl-sized glass. Relax. I am a responsible parent. I am an adult. And I am not an alcoholic. But I did enjoy a glass later while I cooked dinner.

And yes, my child was still awake.

And yes, he sees my husband and I enjoy a glass of wine on a regular basis.

And I think that is just fine.

I do not understand the whole viewpoint stating children should never see a mother enjoy a glass of wine. Beer is marked directly to dads. It is perfectly acceptable for fathers to sit and watch the game or hang by the bbq grill with a frosty beer in hand.

This Father’s Day cake from our local grocery store is a perfect example of the double standard.

Dad + beer = good

but

Mom + wine = unacceptable?

I do agree that kids should not see their parents acting like drunken fools. I’m not talking about downing a bottle while watching Sponge Bob with the neighborhood kids. Wine should not be the beverage of choice for an afternoon playdate. But there is nothing wrong with savoring a glass of wine with dinner, even in front of the children.

So many average Americans just don’t understand the culture of wine. It’s in no way a beverage to chug just to get drunk. It is a delicacy to savor, to swirl in a glass to release the aroma, to sip while enjoying each variety’s layered and distinctive flavor. Wine has a unique relationship with food; when properly paired with a dish (be it calamari or cheesecake) it enhances the complex flavors of both the food and the wine.

It’s no wonder Europeans think Americans are so uptight. Wine is not taboo across the pond; instead it is a common beverage to drink with meals. Many children are given watered down wine from a young age in order to develop their palate and an appreciation for the taste. Growing up in Germany, my mother’s primary school took field trips (including tastings) to the local wineries. Wine and the art/science of winemaking is a vital part or their culture, industry, and life. {Calm down, I’m not advocating doing that here, just loosen up a bit, please.}

We have all heard about how numerous studies have shown moderate consumption of red wine is good for your heart but it also has some other benefits.

Red wine can rev up a woman’s sex life: An Italian Research study found that women who were moderate red wine drinkers had a higher libido than those who drank other alcoholic beverages or who abstained. (Women who drank more than two glasses were no included in the study so drunkenness would not influence results.)

Wine is good for your waistline: Reuters reported trim middle-aged women who drink moderately (red wine especially) are more likely to maintain their weight as they age opposed to non-drinkers.

And in our home wine is also beneficial to our sanity. Many nights when Hubby finishes working at his stressful job he joins me in the kitchen while I cook dinner. We listen to music and sip on a glass of wine as we discuss our hectic days. It is a ritual: we bid adieu to our accumulated stress and relax as we enjoy each others company. Hubby’s doctor actually told him that a daily glass of wine keeps his blood pressure down and keeps him off Prozac.

Before children we relished going to wine tastings and preparing gourmet wine paring dinners with friends. At one time we had a moderate collection of decent wines, but my choice to stay at home with Kiddo limited our wine budget significantly. We still crack open a good bottle to celebrate birthdays, holidays, good news and to share with great friends. But if we ever win the lottery we will have a fully stocked and rocking wine cellar. No more cheap wine for us.

We have always been label whores. Wine purchases are often made not by the WA Points but by unique and funny names and labels. And as a woman and a Mom I am drawn to the labels that reflect my lifestyle: Mommy Wines. They are unpretentious, engaging, and a bit tongue-in-cheek, just like me.

Yes, I understand that some people out there are alcoholics or just do not know when to say when. But the rest of us should not be judged by their behavior. I am an adult. I am a responsible parent. And I enjoy wine.

Yes, I deserve a bottle of Mommy wine. Not because my life is so damn hard I need to get drunk, but because I deserve to be recognized as a responsible and respectable wine consumer.

Keep bringing those beautiful bottles on.

The "C" Word

Baby Girl’s Third Leg

22 Replies

I sat on the table, the paper crinkling under my slowly expanding bottom, my hands clenched at my sides. The lights were dimmed as the tech squeezed a cold blob of goo onto my abdomen. It was time for my 16-week ultrasound.

It was time for me to see who was growing inside me.

I was nervous as hell, as was to be expected. Pregnancy #1 hadn’t gone to well and had ended after only 11 weeks. This little girl was sticking around though, I knew it, I could feel her strength, I could see my belly slightly expanding, I could imagine her tiny hair follicles growing into downy strawberry blonde curls.

I just needed to see her and she would be real.

The tech smiled as she angled the ultrasound wand around. “Looking good,” she said. My little princess measured at the perfect size for her e.d.d., her little heart was pumping away, her profile looked a bit like an alien, but so what. She was doing okay.

“Do you want to know the sex?” the tech asked.

Hell yes. I was not going to buy all green and yellow clothes for her. I needed to break out all my old Barbies, stuffed animals, and Cabbage Patch Kids to decorate her room. I needed to make a final decision on the nursery set. I needed to have those little knit Mary Jane booties sitting in her drawers waiting for her delicate feet.

I squeezed Hubby’s hand as shivers ran down my spine. “Yes, tell us,” I gushed.

“Congratulations. It looks like you are having a boy.”

My smile dropped faster than boobs after breastfeeding. Did I hear hear right? No freakin way. IT CAN’T BE A BOY! Hubby reached down and gave me a hug, looking so proud of himself for possessing masculine sperm.

“Are you sure?” It was early. How could she be so sure?

She pointed out the painfully obvious fifth appendage on the image.

What’s worse: a girl with three legs or a boy?

I wasn’t sure.

I pasted on my dazed country club smile {no teeth and glazed over eyes} and held it together long enough to reach the parking lot. Then I proceeded to collapse as I broke into hysterical tears.

I can’t have a boy. I was always supposed to have a girl. I don’t have any brothers. I have no clue what to do with a boy. He won’t play dolls, or wear cute dresses and pig-tails while playing with My Little Ponies. He’ll pee standing up and stick bugs up his nose and fight and like sports and comic books and want me to buy him playboys when he’s a teen. I can’t do this. I’M SUPPOSED TO HAVE A GIRL.

Somehow I made it to work. I sat in the lunchroom like a zombie clutching the ultrasound in my lap, just staring at the alien creature growing inside me. A co-worker asked me who’s picture it was. Her eyes grew wide when I said it was mine–I had yet to even announce I was pregnant. She whooped and attracted everyone’s attention when I said it was a boy. Congratulations and well wishes flew around the room like a swarm of mosquitoes. In the end, I was emotionally drained.

Don’t worry. By the time my son was born I was completely sold on the whole boy thing. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I needed a little time to get used to the idea. Much better to break down in an empty parking lot than the delivery room, right?

This post was in response to one of Mama Kat’s writing prompts:
Barefoot and hormonal…describe an incident that upset you when you were pregnant, but now looking back makes you laugh.