Tuesday, October 1, 2019

It's Halloween!

Ok, it's not quite Halloween yet... But do you think I am going to be the loser sitting at home on the Saturday before Halloween writing blog posts? If you answered No, you don't know me very well. But I digress, let's pretend like I am not that pathetic, k?

So Halloween... Candy, scary decor, pumpkins, pagan sacrificial rituals and COSTUMES! The one time of the year you get to be whatever you want to be. (Unless you're like me and have a seasonal job that requires you to wear a costume to work and think that there would be nothing more completely awesome than being a pirate, which, of course, there isn't). Whatever you want to be, people!! I mean, think of the possibilities! When I was a little kid, for a short period of time, I wanted to be a nurse. I don't know why I wanted to do that... Blood, shit, needles... ugh. Maybe that's why I stopped wanting to be a nurse. I think, actually, I wanted to be a nurse because my mom was a nurse and when they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I had no fucking clue, so I said nurse. Anyway, you would think this is leading to me dressing up as a nurse for Halloween, right? WRONG!! I didn't. Instead, I was a witch or a cat or some other stupid, uncreative thing that involved makeup. 

So where am I going with this? I'm not entirely sure, but between us, we'll get somewhere eventually. 

Ok, so you can be whatever you want to be. And, much like my story above, most people choose the standard, boring costumes or something that has to do with some stupid movie that was popular that year. Maybe this is lost on me because I never watch these movies and I always end up asking people "So what the hell are you supposed to be?" and I get these incredulous looks because, as it turns out, their costume is totally dead on for said movie and I probably should have figured it out by looking at the 15 other people dressed as the same thing - or at least realized there was something going on that I wasn't privy to and kept my mouth shut. 

Then you have the chicks. It seems that the favorite costume for Halloween is the prostitute, I'm sorry, Lady of the Sidewalk, outfit. Which is fine, the problem is, these chicks try to disguise these as different costumes. Like Firefighters or Pirates or even Nurses. Be careful, because you too could be unwittingly sucked into dressing like a street walker. I am going to let you in on a little secret I have discovered. You see, when you're shopping for a costume, you could be sucked into dressing like a hooker without even trying! I know, this is a huge conspiracy. Thankfully, I am here to put a stop to it. You see, many perfectly acceptable costumes are actually prostitute outfits. You don't want to be dressed like a prostitute. Here's how you find them:

1. First and foremost giveaway: the name of the costume includes the word "sexy". Now, some costume manufacturers will cleverly try to hide this by putting it in parentheses, ie. Cat Costume (Sexy) or (Sexy) Witch. This, to you - the smart, well-educated enjoyer of fine literature that reads my blog - should make it all the more glaringly obvious. Others will simply label it as Sexy Nurse or Sexy Maid. Other misleading terms include, but are not limited to: Diva, sultry, adult and in some cases, teen (?!?!?!?!)

2. The size of the package: This matters. Yes, as in most occasions, the size of the package matters and, when you're trying not to get picked up on a street corner (and other, obvious occasions) smaller isn't better. If your costume comes in a smaller package than your 4 year old's - especially if it includes a wig - you are about to attend that "kid friendly" party as a Lady of the Night. If the costume includes nothing but a wig and makeup, you're in serious trouble (or you're going to get propositioned for a "movie" role, in that case, Congrats! if you're into that sort of thing).

3. Is it something a woman wouldn't normally dress up as? If this is the case, please check your costume carefully. Women don't usually dress up as sailors, gangsters, convicts, cops or grunt level infantrypersons

That being said, ladies, if you really want to be a prostitute, then your choices are unlimited. Otherwise, feel free to write to these costume manufacturers and let them know you are on to their little scheme of selling you as little fabric as possible for an exorbitant amount of money and causing you to unwittingly portray that your highest aspiration in life is to become a Lady of the Sidewalk.

Red Bird

Slut Bird

Friday, June 7, 2019

A Song of Disappointment and Bullshit: How HBO Ruined an Epic

   Regardless of how you felt about the second to last episode - I for one, found it wonderfully unpredictable and satisfying - I think there are few who would say they are happy with the series finale. Not for the same reasons as "Jaime Lannister should have gone out in a hero's death" (he kind of did) or "You made Dany a bad guy!! Waahh!". The reasons to hate the finale are more practical and less emotional. You may hate that Jon killed his queen and former lover. You may hate that the dragon melted the throne... But these things pale in comparison to the storyline and continuity issues that litter the episode. And don't even get me started on missed opportunities.

   Let's start with the thing that personally bothers me the most, because this is my blog and I can do what I want, and what I want is to bitch about the meaning behind the animals, particularly the direwolves. Or, I should say, LACK of meaning. I kept waiting and waiting for the significance of the direwolves to be revealed. I felt like I got a glimpse of it early on when it seemed that the howling of Bran's direwolf, Summer, was what kept him alive. Not to mention Summer saving Cat from the knifeman. Rob dies, his wolf dies. Rickon dies, his wolf dies. Sansa's wolf dies, and nothing. Bran's wolf dies saving him, but Bran has become the Three Eyed Raven so he's technically no longer a Stark. And Ghost? He's badass, just like Jon. But none of it means anything except these are some Starks and they have giant pet wolves. It never really goes beyond that except in some instances where the wolves save them or someone else. And what about Nimeria? Why is there no meaning or significance to the fact that she is still alive but estranged from Aria? I would say it means Aria becomes estranged from her family, which she does, but Sansa becomes fucking QUEEN of Winterfell and her wolf is dead!

   Then there are the dragons. I found some significance in the fact that Viserion was the one that got turned into a wight. Afterall, he was described as the smallest dragon and he was named after her shit of a brother who her husband, Khal Drogo, killed by dumping molten gold onto his head when he demanded the Khal give him his crown. I also thought there would be some significance to the fact that Jon rode Rhagal, the dragon named for Daenerys' brother, Rhagar, who also happens to be Jon's secret father. But it seems that was only the case because he was the only other dragon left.

   Speaking of Jon and the dragons, let's talk about that for a second. Dragons only allow Targaryens to ride them and Dany knows this. Yet, she doesn't blink an eye when Jon gets on Rhagal; in fact, she suggests it. Either she is incredibly arrogant in thinking that the dragons will accept him because he is her lover, or someone really dropped the continuity ball.

   And is it me, or does Daenerys not seem to show the proper amount of grief when one of the dragons dies? These are her children and the most we see or hear of it is "my dragon died so that...". She never really mourns either one of them. Yet, when Missandei dies, she locks herself in her chambers and refuses food. I mean, I get that they were close and that Missandei is human, but the dragons are her children!! The only children she will ever have!

  Maybe I just set too much stock in the animals as something more symbolic than they were, but it really irritated me. And why would Drogon not have melted Jon instead of the iron throne? He's clearly the one who killed Dany and the dragons are supposed to be quite intelligent. Did he spare him because he's actually Aegon Targaryen? Which brings me to...

   It's for nothing that Jon is Aegon Targaryen, the rightful heir to the throne. The biggest fucking bombshell in the entire series and it means nada. But I am getting ahead of myself. Other than the fact that the entire finale was a snoozefest, aside from the one scene where Jon offs the Mad Queen, it was just rife with things that made zero sense.

   We watch Drogon spare Jon's life, melt the iron throne, then pick up Dany's lifeless body and fly off with her - perhaps to Valyria to find a red priest? Then cut to Tyrion and all the "lords" of Westeros. What? Where is Jon? Then we find out he was taken prisoner by the unsullied... Right, because Grey Worm was executing prisoners in the street but we are supposed to believe he spared Tyrion and Jon, who, oh by the way, killed his beloved Queen and Liberator. And how did anyone find out? I mean, ok, it's not out of the realm of belief that Jon told on himself, but they really leave that one up to imagination. They're clearly lazy like that. Especially about stuff that doesn't make any sense. Like how the unsullied have suddenly become so powerful that the Northerners allowed them to imprison the King in The North without a word of protest.

   Then the Unsullied just leave. See ya, goobye. But we're still going to send Jon north anyway. And that brings me to the final major point. Why is Jon being sent to the Wall? Number one, the wall was melted by zombie dragon ice fire and number two, the Others are dead. The Wall isn't even needed any more. It just doesn't make any flippin sense!!

Look, I can deal with an ending I don't like. I could have dealt with all of this if it had a logical explanation. And maybe it does, but the writers did a poor job of conveying it, instead leaving us with a boring, unsatisfying and somewhat infuriating end to what was, up until now, an epic. Hopefully Martin saves us with his countless-years-in-the-making final books. The thing that makes all of it most disappointing is that you know exactly why they whiffed on the ending so badly... Spin-offs. Can't something ever just END? Oh no, not when we're making all this money.

Shame. Shame. Shame. HBO. I want to parade you naked in the streets and throw garbage and excrement at you.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

Floored and Disgusted

I rarely write about serious topics here. Well, maybe I do, in either cryptic ways or via hyperbole and humor. This time, I want my word vomit to venture into the serious, because I have nothing humorous to say about this topic. I may throw out a few snide remarks, but they are to be taken with a grain of rage and indignation, not in jest. Even if, at some point, you may be led to believe I am making light (and we'll see how this goes as it goes), please do not mistake me.

Now, normally, most people would preface something like this with all kinds of qualifiers like:

  • I don't think that every Christian believes this...
  • I'm normally tolerant of other people's beliefs...
  • I understand people interpret these things differently...
  • I'm not a raging feminist. In fact, I kinda hate feminists...
Blah blah... You know what? Fuck all that. I have been reading a bunch of garbage over the past few days and I have to say something. Even if it's just word vomit. Even if it's not some well-thought-out-backed-up-by-sources piece of literary genius. I'm just going to say it, without qualification. Without having to say," no, I'm not an atheist/agnostic/pagan-Illuminati-goat-worshipper/whatever stupid fucking label you're inclined to throw on me because you can't think outside of your stupid fucking boxes that you have to throw people in. I swear, I drink, I drive too fast, if that all lowers your opinion of me as a human being, look in the fucking mirror (the F-bomb will apparently be thrown about liberally tonight, how fitting).

Something put me down this rabbit hole. Once I got there, it was like the train wreck... no, I have to stop there, that metaphor is inadequate. It's like the psychotic mass murder, dismembered body parts and all, that you have stumbled upon and cannot look away from. I'm not kidding, that truly is how strongly I feel. I am shaken and appalled to my very core over this. There are a LOT of fucked up things going on in the world, but not a one of them has gotten me this riled up in a long time.

Ok, enough preamble, you get it... maybe. Spend some time here: https://biblicalgenderroles.com. I particularly encourage you to search for the word "sex". Spend some time reading the comments. I dare you. Go ahead. I'll wait. I suspect 99% of you will find my F-bombs to be a breath of fresh mountain air after you read that site...
Had enough already have you? Or maybe you agreed with it? If you did, don't bother commenting. I will lose all respect for you as a human being. I'm not kidding. Here are some of the choicer comments/posts:

If you slap me, fucker, I am going to shoot you in the face. How do you like that? Because, in America at least, I can own a gun, and I can defend myself from someone threatening bodily harm to my person, even if he's my "husband". I'm not a child. I'm an adult. I am your equal, not your ward. What kind of self-respecting woman marries a man who believes this garbage? I mean, is this like hillbilly backwoods shit come to the internet or are these like normal, middle class people who believe this? That fact that anyone thinks they can treat another adult like this is fucking disgusting to me. Especially when you look at all the places where it's stated that men are physically strong than women, "the weaker vessels", therefore, thou shalt slap the bitch?

Let's take a look at a passage from the actual post:

I feel like now is a good time to point out the title of this article/blog post/word garbage:

Why the Bible Allows Forced Sex in Marriage

That is directly from the site, font and all. No emphasis added. Is this purposefully inflammatory? Like seriously, I feel like maybe this is just some person maybe trying to be funny in a sick, demented way. No, friends, it's not. This is a real person, who really believes this crap.This person goes on to tell women they should show skin, even in public, to please their husbands... But I will get to that one soon. Let me first comment on the above passage (as if I need to). I don't give two crispy flying fucks what some stupid book says (a book written by human beings, not by a divine being), you do not have the right to force yourself upon ANYONE sexually. No, I wasn't sexually abused or molested, I have no demons. For most of my life, I have enjoyed a healthy, active sex life. I am not somehow jaded by bad experiences. I just simply do not and cannot believe that a husband somehow has sexual dominion over his wife's body, that she is never "allowed" to say no. This is a great way to make someone leave you, by the way, forcing them to have sex with you because "god said so", unless of course you happened to find some poor, repressed woman who actually thinks this is truth.

I've spent so long speaking out against feminism, because I do believe that the ultimate goal of it does NO favors for women (or children for that matter), that I have probably overlooked a lot of what drives some women toward it. Was this the attitude of society a couple of hundred years ago? If you read history books, it pretty much was. Women were property, bargaining chips and generally inferior to men. I can't accept that. 

Looks guys, I have no aspirations of becoming an ironman or fathering children. I don't want your construction jobs. I don't want to pay child support while you care for my children and I do whatever I want. I don't want to pee standing up (well maybe a little) or be so weak in the face of an attractive member of the opposite sex that I have to coerce my wife to do things she may not want to do so that I won't be "tempted". I don't want to be that weak. And for the record, I don't think most of you do, or are, either.

A few more tidbits:

Thou shalt wear makeup if thou art ugly. Thou shalt behave like a slut so your husband doesn't go find an actual slut.

No seriously. Go search this site for sex. I'm actually less mad now, because once I saw all the posts, I realized that this is just some sick, depraved perv who uses the Bible to control women. Ok, maybe I'm not less mad, but it gives me hope that not all Christians believe this drivel. That not all of these men who claim to be holy and good and Godly think they get to lord it over their wives because women are somehow lesser beings. We don't tolerate that crap in our society any more. Not against black people or Asians or women, for the most part. Sure, there are still some assholes out there, but humans are humans an All Men are Created Equal - men, meaning human beings, even if the dudes who wrote that at the time weren't totally enlightened.

So I don't want to post any more from there. If you want to witness the carnage and feel like you have been brain raped, be my guest. here are some of the choicer articles you might sample:
  • Why God Wants You to STAY in an Abusive Relationship
  • Answers to 6 common arguments against polygamy
  • Why it is NOT Wrong for Men to See Women as Sex Objects
  • Porn use is “a way to escape” the temptation of extra-marital sex
  • Do Christian wives have to submit to requests for anal sex by their husbands?
Now that I am sort of over my righteous anger (because, for real, do people actually, for real believe this shit and get to force it on other people?!?!), I have to say I could bash this site all day. However, I think the takeaway here is that I can almost relate now to why women turn to feminism (not that I think that's the answer). But man, I have to say, if I was with a man who believed this, well, I wouldn't be with him, of course, but I might be so completely taken aback that I might not know how to react.

Also, this is why people don't like your religion. Don't blame non-believers, blame the people who count themselves amongst your ranks that make you look BAD.

I also want to point out that, while this was probably on of the worst, this was in no way the only site that promotes these types of beliefs. Particularly that God views women as lesser beings than men or that women were put here for the use and abuse of men, solely.

I leave you with:


1 Timothy 2:11-15 ESV / 793 helpful votes

Let a woman learn quietly with all submissiveness. I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man; rather, she is to remain quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor. Yet she will be saved through childbearing—if they continue in faith and love and holiness, with self-control.

1 Corinthians 14:34-35 ESV / 416 helpful votes

The women should keep silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak, but should be in submission, as the Law also says. If there is anything they desire to learn, let them ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church.

Genesis 3:16 ESV / 343 helpful votes

To the woman he said, “I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children. Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.”


Galatians 3:26-29 ESV / 406 helpful votes

For in Christ Jesus you are all sons of God, through faith. For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. And if you are Christ's, then you are Abraham's offspring, heirs according to promise.

1 Corinthians 11:11-12 ESV / 201 helpful votes

Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not independent of man nor man of woman; for as woman was made from man, so man is now born of woman. And all things are from God.

I'm just the lady sitting here pasting shit. Don't ask me to figure it out. Maybe I am taking it out of context. Or maybe it's just man in all his contradiction writing shit down, claiming it's more than it is and using it to control people.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Fun at the Airport

[This is one from the archives. I wrote this after the fun with Truthers and Becktards.]

Now that I am done making fun of truthers, let's get back to the funny...

By now, you've all heard of the drama with the new TSA "security" measures. It seems now, in order for us to be absolutely safe on a flight (and make sure that no shady Arabs board a plane with explosives in their underwear) "random" people must either be subjected to a virtual strip search via high doses of x-ray radiation or receive an enhanced groping "pat down". I'm sure you all see the first flaw in this plan... Random people get searched. So, if I am a diabolical terrorist mastermind who wants to blow up a plane, I should put 3 or 4 people on the plane and put them all in line with each other, but have them tell the TSA they are not all "together". The chances of all 4 of them being searched are little to none. Maybe the TSA should hire me to figure this shit out for them...

Anyway, if you have to fly, you might as well have some fun with this. Obviously, any reasonable person would not choose to be exposed to an x-ray sans lead vest, so, if you're selected, you're going to have to opt-out of that and go for the "enhanced groping pat down". Now, I don't want to alarm anyone, like people who have been molested or victims of rape or people who are afraid of sex in general, but this procedure involves a complete stranger examining your private parts... If you don't want to be denied the ability to get on your flight, that you PAID for, here are some things you can do to avoid this humiliating experience (or at least make it even more humiliating for the person raping groping assaulting screening you):

1. Eat lots of Mexican food (or whatever gives you uncontrollable, stinky gas). When they get to the leg portion of your "pat down", rip one right in their face. To pull this off, you need to be able to fart on command. If you cannot do this, or think you might be subject to performance anxiety, keep reading.

2. When your molester screener approaches, tell them you'd like to ask them some questions before you are searched. Proceed to inquire about their sexual orientation. Tell them that they appear gay to you and you are not comfortable with a homo feeling your junk. Find some physical characteristic to point out and tell them it seems suspiciously gay to you, and that it defeats the purpose of having a same sex groper if they are gay.

3. Tell them you are the virgin daughter of a devout Mormon fundamentalist. Ask if this screening procedure is the equivalent of dry humping. When they give you a perplexed look, explain that dry humping is a sin and that you can only dry hump with your father until you are married. Ask if your father can perform the screening.

If you want to entirely avoid the pat down, here are some suggestions for things to tell them:

1. I have a horrific yeast infection.

2. My herpes decided to flair up this morning, before I could take my valtrex. My junk is 4 times the normal size and extremely painful and I would appreciate if you didn't touch it.

3. My holiday hemorrhoids are acting up, please don't touch them or they will rupture, and them we will have a big mess and I am sure you don't want that.

You should avoid telling them you have any sort of highly communicable disease, like leprosy or ebola, because you might get banned from your flight and be subjected to an even more invasive molestation by the CDC.

Some of you might try to appeal to my better nature (as if I had one) and tell me that these are awfully mean things to do to someone who's just try to do their job. To that I say... One, what the fuck kind of sadistic, made fun of in high school person takes a job molesting people instead of just becoming a cop? And two, if they can't find people to do it, no one will get groped until they teach robots. I'd rather be groped by a robot than by a 300 pound black woman with 3 inch finger nails.

I hope this little guide has helped you have a less humiliating and possibly entertaining if not pleasant experience at the airport. (Look, I just write, I don't work miracles).

Real Texts - Office Edition

Note: If  you observe the timestamps on the emails, this is clearly old... I am, in fact, no longer employed (not because of this, but wouldn't that be funny (not funny-haha, of course)). I believe I did pblish this after it was written but took it down of my own accord after said "secretary" somehow stumbled upon it, during work hours, and complained to my boss, who, if I remember correctly, found it quite hilarious.

So my job usually fluctuates between insanely busy and mind-numbingly boring. In either case, I couldn't resist replying to this email from our Secretary... Wait, they don't like that word, do they? I'd call her an Administrative Assistant, but she really doesn't do anything, nor does she ever "assist" anyone. Mostly, she walks around the office with her stinky old lady perfume that she bathes in, makes a lot of noise and bothers us via email about RSVPing for company lunches and such. Anyway, I'll just call her Bozo, she has the hair for it...

From: The Clown, Bozo
Sent: Friday, April 20, 2012 10:07 AM
To: Pittsburgh
Subject: Snacks

The company provides a limited amount of snacks for us to enjoy, along with coffee and tea.  However, certain items - like the caramel cream candies and peanut-butter-filled pretzels - do not last as long as they should, which indicates that some of you may be pigging out (I have no idea who)!   Please limit yourself to just a couple pieces of candy or pretzels per day so that we can continue to provide snacks on a limited basis for everyone.



Bozo The Clown
Administrative Assistant

From: Trbobitch
Sent: Friday, April 20, 2012 10:10 AM
To: The Clown, Bozo; Pittsburgh
Subject: RE: Snacks

How long exactly are we expecting them to last? Maybe we should come up with a formula for how many pieces each person can have per day so that they last the appropriate amount of time… Anyone found taking more than their share per day can be publicly humiliated by wearing a rubber pig nose the rest of the day ;-)

(Obviously said facetiously to demonstrate the absurdity of bothering hard working professionals with such ridiculousness)

From: The Clown, Bozo
Sent: Friday, April 20, 2012 10:18 AM
To: Trbobitch; Pittsburgh
Subject: RE: Snacks

Great idea, Trbo!  I’ll order one of these:  

[this was a picture of a pig nose mask]

I don’t actually keep very close tabs on it.  But when a big jar of regular pretzel sticks last several weeks and the peanut-filled ones are gone in three days – well, you do the math!


(So I did the math... It's a 2.75 lbs jar of pb filled pretzels (pretzels are fairly dense/heavy). The distro for our office has 30 people on it. Assume 10 of these people work from home at least some of the time. That's 20 people taking a handful out of this jar on a daily basis... She's LUCKY it lasts 3 days)

And because I can't leave well enough alone:

From: Trbobitch 
Sent: Friday, April 20, 2012 10:20 AM
To: The Clown, Bozo; Pittsburgh
Subject: RE: Snacks

Buying the regular pretzel sticks sounds like a logical solution to me. Everyone can then bring their own jar of peanutbutter J

(What I really wanted to say was, if it stops these stupid emails from going out, buy the fucking regular pretzels!!)

From: The Clown, Bozo
Sent: Friday, April 20, 2012 10:22 AM
To: Trbobitch; Pittsburgh
Subject: RE: Snacks

It is a logical solution.  But when we all prefer the other kind, it kinda sucks that we have to stop ordering them because we can’t control ourselves!  However, if it comes to that, I can certainly order snacks that no one likes very much.  Problem solved : )


(OH boy! Threaten the one other person besides you who cares enough about this to be scared that you won't order the peanut butter filled pretzels!! Give me a fucking BREAK!)

After some deliberation, H and I decided that Bozo, herself, is in fact the notorious pretzel thief. We came to this conclusion based on the following:

  • According to the other email respondents, no one knew these pretzels existed in our office.
  • One of these people has an office right outside the kitchen
  • On Bozo's desk is a jar filled with these elusive "carmel cream candies", Bozo's desk is actually in the reception area, which is a separate part of the building from where everyone else is.
  • Even though we supposedly have a "snack budget" - it seems that snacks are purchased sporadically. We have gone several months without any snacks in the kitchen from Staples. Either that, or they are purchased regularly and not put in the kitchen... hmmmm.
So I have solved the great mystery of the Pittsburgh Office Snack Thief, can I have a peanut butter pretzel???

Friday, May 3, 2013

Born Free Episode 2: Rub a Dub, Born In a Tub

A post 8 months in the making. Finally finished and I have spared you no details.

For over a week now, there has been a 3.5 foot deep inflatable pool sitting in our living room. No, this isn't us failing at being rednecks again... This is us being hippies. Upper-middle class, suburban hippies - pretty much the worst thing ever besides limousine liberals and hipsters of any sort. We had to put a sheet over the pool to keep it clean, and to make sure Thing 2 didn't decide to play in it. He wanted to. Badly.

Big Daddy made sure to let our immediate neighbors know that I'd be giving birth to our offspring in our living room... You know, just in case we needed to leave the windows open or something and I made a little noise. We didn't want them to think someone was being murdered or forced to watch reruns of Jerry Springer. Of course, if it was going to turn out anything like the "orgasmic birth" stories I'd been reading, they'd just think we were being really loud, as per usual. They'd probably even commend us for being able to have such great sex while I was so hugely pregnant. The last thing we'd be needing is taser-happy gestapos beating down the door demanding I go to the torture facility hospital and shooting my dog or something.

BD called the midwife and gave the phone to me - it was around 5:15. She wanted me to talk to her through a contraction, if I recall correctly, and I am pretty sure I made some sort of awful noise because she said "I'm on my way". I had originally intended to wear my maternity swimsuit top that made my boobs look fantastic just in case someone decided to snap pictures... Seems that, when you're in that much pain, you really don't give a rat's ass what you look like. I threw on my trusty Genie Bra and proceeded to be in pain.

It gets a little blurry from here, but I know we went downstairs and were trying to get me comfortable. For some reason (*cough* hippie birth blogs *cough*), this was way more painful than I had anticipated... There was no calm, controlled, being all zen through contractions, I felt like my body was going to split open like size medium spandex pants on Oprah at any minute. At one point, BD put 2 yoga mats on the floor for me to kneel on as this was how I originally planned to give birth. My almost-30-year-old knees couldn't handle that kind of weight, and that idea went out the door as fast as it came in.

Things seemed to be going quite fast and we decided to fill up the pool. BD already had his intricate filter system set up on the shower head, thankfully, because I was starting to feel like maybe I was going to drop that baby right there on the floor at any second. At least, I hoped so because I certainly did not want to endure several more hours of that pain with no drugs in sight... He brought down the hose and started filling the pool and I decided I needed to go to the bathroom. All kinds of ugly feelings and pain were going on, and it was getting harder to distinguish one from the other (remember, I originally thought this was gas pain) so it turns out that having to go pee was more than just having to go pee... I was quite terrified that maybe I had misinterpreted that as well and was going to give birth in the toilet.

This is gross and maybe just a little TMI, but I definitely had to do more than pee. I took this as a good thing, my body trying to clear itself out so I wasn't one of those women who "took a dump on the delivery table" or in this case "pooped in the pool". As I am trying to go, with actual intestinal pain to go along with the contractions, I realize that BD is standing in the doorway. I love my husband dearly, and we have no embarrassments or secrets with one another, but taking a dump, for me, is still a very solitary exercise. I'm sure he was also afraid that I was going to drop the kid out in the commode, but I looked up and said "This isn't going to work with you watching!!" in my best what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you-that-you-think-standing-there-is-a-good-idea voice. Poor guy.

We made our way back downstairs and I go into the pool. Oh sweet relief! It didn't take my pain away 100%, and there was certainly not going to be any dimmed lights, floating flowers, glasses of wine birthing going on, but it definitely felt better to be in that water. I can't remember the exact sequence of events from here, but at some point my midwife arrived and BD also got in the tub with me, it was probably around 6:30 or so. Getting in that thing, for both of us, was the point of no return. The sides were HIGH and the bottom also inflated so it was very very difficult to climb out of.

The midwife checked my progress at some point after she arrived, and I was at either 7 or 8 centimeters. All the hippie homebirthers will tell you this means nothing, that you could stay that way for hour or go from 2 cm to 8 cm in 20 minutes. Yeah, don't care, it was a relief to know that I was, in fact, in labor. You'd think after 2 other kids and all the pain, one would be able to surmise past a certain point that one is, indeed, in labor. Not so. Unless you are a marathon homebirther, you will doubt actual labor, no matter how much pain you are in, until either a. you get a numeric indication of cervical dilation or b. a small dome-shaped object starts protruding from your hoo-hoo. 

Things went ok from here. Yes, it was painful and awful, but I was still able to laugh and crack jokes with everyone. I kinda rolled around in that pool like a large sea mammal for a while. The contractions sucked and they were very painful (I made sure to announce the coming of each one so everyone could know I was about to be in excruciating torment) but I at least got a bit of a reprieve between each one. Somewhere around 7:30-7:45, I was much less jovial, and I also had less time between each stab of torture. It seemed like this went on for hours, with many a- "I can't do this any more" and "someone please just give me drugs, I know one of you has some!!!!!!", before I felt like maybe I could start pushing. Looking back, this may have just been wishful thinking on my part because I so badly wanted it to be over...

A lot of crunchy Earth-mamas will tell you that pushing is "relieving" (and this is where some of them even go all orgasmic)... Unless some time in the past 20 years or so the word "relieving" became a synonym for "a giant with hands of near-molten glass is ripping my body in half slowly", I'm not entire sure what they are referring to. This is pain that will make or break you. You either go through it because that is the only way to get it over with or you give up and pass out (seriously, there have to be women who do this and I can't blame them one iota). Unfortunately, I was betrayed by my body and my swooning reflex went on hiatus, so I had to um, "push through the pain" - you know, in case maybe you mistake child birth for a Jillian Michaels workout DVD (striking similarities, believe it or not).

To make matters worse, my midwife announced that I had a "cervical lip" - a piece of my cervix just didn't want to let go of the warm little ball of baby flesh inside of me. She had to physically hold back this lip while I was pushing. I'm not sure if you know where a cervix is located, but you really should go google it so you can appreciate the full painful uncomfortableness of it all.

Pushing is a vague term. Something they call it so as not to scare the first-timers too badly. What I was doing was more like some kind of primal, instinct-led exercise where I tried as hard as I could to make my guts come out of my bottom-side without rupturing an eyeball. In order to do this, it was essential that I make some kind of noise. I wanted to scream, but I was told to make lower-noises with an open mouth. I'm pretty sure that, at some point, it turned into screaming anyway. Right in BD's ear. I also came very very very close to biting down on his hand. That shit where they give people leather belts to bite down on? Totally legit. I would have given anything for a leather belt just then; anything but the pool.

The offspring finally started crowning - FINALLY! - and the first thing I hear is "look at all that hair!!" I was then asked to reach down and touch the baby's head. If ever given the choice to feel a small, hairy skull stretching the delicate petals of your lady parts til you feel something appropriately dubbed "the ring of fire", I would advise that you politely decline and keep your hands wrapped around whatever part of your husband you can get a hold of and continue hanging on for dear life. After all, you'll have the rest of your life to touch your kid's head, but you can never unfeel your stretched and mangled vag.

There are no words to describe the feeling of a (not-so-)tiny person coming out of a fairly small orifice of your body. Babies may have "soft" bones, but I felt every. single. one.  as he descended from my womb. I remember pushing as hard as I could and feeling my legs shaking against the side of the pool, losing strength, and thinking "Oh my god, this is it, I am going to completely run out of gas right before the baby comes out and he's going to be stuck in there!" Thankfully, no such thing happened, and the baby came out, bone by bone, all 8 pounds, 7 ounces of him at exactly 8:40 pm (according to Verizon, anyway).

It was so strange for me to be so fully aware (I had drugs with my first two births) and yet feel so completely like I was in a dream. I'm sure every mother thinks this, but when my midwife handed me my newly separated offspring, I remember thinking that I had never in my life seen such a beautiful newborn. He just stared around, he didn't cry, he didn't squirm, he was just in some kind of holy-shit-what-the-fuck-just-happened-and-where-the-hell-am-I trance. And he was PERFECT. Did I mention that he was perfect? He even pooped on me, but we were in water anyway and god dammit he was so damn perfect!

After a little while, my midwife told me it was time to deliver the placenta... Do what now? You mean I have to PUSH again? Between the pain in my nether regions and the absolute exhaustion in all of my "pushing" muscles, I flat out told her "I can't"... I just can't and you can't make me!!!!! She told me to try to cough. I did, it didn't really work. I could feel what I had to do, so I somehow did it. That last push to get the placenta out was harder than the 20 minutes or so (I think that's how long it took??) I spent pushing the baby out!

After some time, Little D was handed to Big D and I managed to haul my deflated body out of the pool. It wasn't easy standing on what amounted to a thin air mattress while trying to climb over a 3.5 foot high, 10 inch wide wall after what felt like just having your body go through a meat grinder. I remember going up to the shower, getting cleaned up and feeling super giddy. I got dressed and all tucked into bed, my midwife's assistant even made me a sandwich.

During all of this, BD was apparently sitting in a pool of bloody water, holding a tiny, naked baby, not able to move and all by himself. He said he was afraid to move a single muscle, lest he drop the baby into the dark, bloody abyss. It was his own personal horror movie scene. It seems my midwife was off examining the placenta while I was upstairs with her assistant getting cleaned up. BD will tell you that he was left in the bloody horror show for like an hour, when in reality, it was probably more like 10 or 15 minutes.

Anyway, the ending of this story is pretty anti-climactic. The only evidence remaining of that harrowing day are an even more beautiful 8 month old baby and my still deflated belly that just refuses to go away. For the longest time afterwards, I felt a mixture of astonishment and pride at the fact that I did what I did, at home, with no doctors or, more amazingly, drugs in sight. I was also slightly horrified and traumatized by the experience. Not because anyone did anything wrong or because anything bad happened, but simply because of the sheer amount of pain and sensation I felt during the whole thing. I'm a WUSS, a giant baby when it comes to pain. Memories of pain remain with me for a long time after the physical sensation is gone.

I am finally to the point where I can look back on it now and feel good that I got through it and did the best possible thing for my child, drugs were not an option for me when it comes to him and they still are not. If I was not so concerned about his exposure to chemicals, I absolutely would not have given birth they way I did, I would have gone to a hospital and gotten the good drugs and laughed my way through childbirth once again. Even at the expense of getting stitched in the lady parts yet again. Not something you hear from the typical crunchy, hippie homebirthing, breastfeeding, cloth-diapering lady. Of course, there were also no orgasms in sight - maybe it's worth taking up some sort of S&M before giving birth to actually enjoy the sensations? Ok, now we're just trekking into creepy, let's call it a post.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Born Free Episode 1: Labor Day

I've become a complete and total hippie... Sure, we've been eating organic food and wearing aluminum free deodorant for a while now, but what really seals the deal is having a baby in my living room. Yes, I am featuring my own "birth story" right here on my blog. Why? Because that's what one does when they have a home birth - it's crunchy protocol. This story, however, will be a far cry from the fluffy, happy, gushy mushy stories about vag miracles and woman power...

Big Daddy and I had been trying to trigger labor ever since we hit 39 weeks on his birthday (September 1st). We thought we had things going on 9/2, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Being pregnant and miserable, I just wanted the baby OUT and kept thinking he was going to go way past due if I didn't do something to get him going. Ah, ignorant bliss... If I had known what labor had in store for me, I may have elected to stay pregnant forever.

On 9/7, we decided to try to get things going again. After an awkward bout of late pregnancy sexy time, nothing seemed to be picking up, so BD headed off to work - albeit, quite late. I decided to spend the morning continuing trying to get the baby to find the warm confines of my womb to be not quite so pleasant. This involved bouncing on a large ball that I wasn't entirely sure would hold my weight. All that bouncing made my normally very sedentary body pretty tired, so I gave up and took a nap because I was actually having LESS uterine action than I had been the past few weeks. BD came home at 2:00 and we decided to do some shopping... If the stress of a Target packed with morons who apparently have no respect for those of us growing people inside of us wouldn't be enough to put me in labor, nothing would be.

We went to Panera for lunch first and, strangely, the woman who rang us up said something about me going into labor there. I assured her that no such thing would be taking place as I was obviously going to be pregnant forever... I did have a few contractions at Panera, but they were nothing more than the usual, slightly more painful Braxton-Hicks contractions that led to absolutely nothing. We got to Target, and did our thing. We were actually having a lot of fun, so much that I paid no attention to the fact that I was having to stop and lean on something during my "Braxton-Hicks contractions". I had more important things to worry about, like the Pumpkin Spice latte I was about to enjoy from the in-store Starbucks.

We managed to get home right before Thing 2's bus arrived. Unfortunately, Thing 1 had been waiting for a half hour and apparently "really, really had to take a dump!!" - next time he will learn to take his key. We took the stuff in and I decided to take a bath not long after because the contractions were getting more painful. Somehow, at the time, I didn't associate the pain with possibly being in labor - maybe because it didn't seem to be coming regularly. I honestly thought I was just having gas pain or something - you know, because of course abdominal pain that comes and goes and is quite intense when you just happen to be almost 40 weeks pregnant is obviously just gas.

So I take what's left of my delicious pumpkin spice latte and get in the bath. I'm not entirely sure at this point how I even managed to fit in the tub, but I did. Not long after getting in, I recall yelling out during a bout of "gas pain". For some reason, it finally hit me that this was more than the fermenting remains of my lunch forming methane in my intestines... There was no 1950's TV show "Oh My God The Baby Is Coming!!" moment, but I called BD up and told him what was going on. We never timed a single contraction, because they were still sporadic... This is a good time for a tangent: The weekend before, I was having contractions that were a minute long and 2-3 minutes apart for several hours. So much that we DID call the midwife. Turned out to be a false alarm and going to sleep made it stop.

So after he came up, I was still really wishy-washy as to what was going on. He, of course, was getting nervous. Finally, I couldn't take the pain any more and had to get out of the tub. Any pain that's bad enough to make me abandon a hot bath is definitely serious. I told BD to call the midwife...

Stay tuned for Episode 2: Rub a Dub, Born In a Tub.