Scribbling Dame

Preposterous Pondering.

From Sugar Tits to Booger Boobs July 1, 2012

Filed under: Boobs — Scribbling Dame @ 9:51 am
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Yes I am alive! I bet you thought the children finally were able to overthrow the house and hold us captive…but, I took a month off to enjoy the new babe and then I just got lazy, therefor you should congratulate me on writing this post because it means I am not being lazy (about blogging) any more. For now.

We have rounded the corner from newborn semi-chaos to baby bliss. Routine is nice. However, there is a mystery abounding in the household that baffles my mind. I cannot fathom how such small beings generate so much snot and boogers. I’m not talking the occasional green fugitive here and there. I am talking full-on blob-like invasion. A tsunami of nose nuggets overtakes our house EVERY DAY.

Even Barry has boogies…

The pleasantries begin with my four-year-old’s allergies. This involves clear snot rocket boogers that shoot out upon every sneeze. Inevitably these sneezes occur near my face as I am prying open my eyelids to tolerate the day, or more awesomely, at meal times. After the snot has presented itself, Sofia sits there like a walrus with booger tusks and waits for one of us to bring her a tissue, as if we are fucking tissue valets. Blech.

In her defense, we are not expected to clean up all her boogers, because she also likes to eat them. (Puke in mouth.) One day I asked her, “why do you eat your boogers?” She looks at me like I am a total  freaking moron and says, “Because they taste good.” Duh.

On to the tiny. You would think for having such small nasal passages that gigantic green goblins wouldn’t be a part of our lives yet. However, they are there. They stare at me from the light of the beautiful smiling cherubic face which makes me impulsively have to pick them. I can’t concentrate until this flaw has been removed.

Sometimes though, I don’t have to bother. When Ellie is breastfeeding, she manages to deposit her boogies onto my boob. This is like wiping them on a dinner table if you ask me. It is these moments when I get a little depressed, remembering when my boobs used to be perky things of glory that would get me free stuff when I went out. Now they are milky booger depositories. Sigh.

It’s okay. I’ll take boogers over poop any day.

 

Sexy is relative. And obviously scientific. March 2, 2012

Be careful work peeps–this may be TMI…

I am so fucking pregnant. This is not just a statement of fact–it is the official final stage of pregnancy. I am sure you have heard of it.

The others are:

1) Yay! I’m pregnant. Nauseous, but grateful.

2) How cute! I am pregnant. Showing a “bump” and having some of the cute-sie symptoms like pickle cravings and burps. So sweet! and then there is where I am…

3)So fucking pregnant–as in I am so fucking pregnant I feel like a leg or arm could be dangling out of my nether-regions and I may not even realize it. This is the phase where everyone loves to say “wow. you’re ready to ‘pop.’ ” This is also nature’s way of helping a woman not care so much about what happens to her during labor/delivery because at least it will all be over with.

I am the stage of pregnancy where I am in a pharmacy next to senior citizens and we are evaluating/purchasing the same products. Attempting to keep myself groomed below the belt, because I can see nothing below my navel, results in something that looks like small wild animals attacked me.

Mee-ow.

 

And this brings me to a strange miracle that I have observed in both of my pregnancies as well as those of my friends. My husband doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he, and many of my man friends have told me they find their partners somehow more attractive and dare I say fuckable at exactly the same moment women are feeling like they could not be larger, more awkward, or less attractive ( a la Shrek). In my eyes, this is like someone going from a luxury sports car to a used mini-van and being far more excited about the latter. God bless ’em. (*sorry to be exclusionary to my same-sex friends–not sure if the experience is the same for y’all. So far my only exposure/conversations have been with hetero-couples…)

To me, this must be hormonal and scientific. I liken this phenomena to another of my husband’s habits, which is the need to “plant his seed” when I am deathly ill. It’s like his last shot at continuing his genus. In other words, there must be some evolutionary reason that men dig pregnant chicks (and there are totally porno sites of pregnant chicks out there–Google if you don’t believe me.) It’s not as if I can get more pregnant. For the life of me, I can’t think of what that reason is.

On this rare occasion, I don’t feel the need to hotly pursue the answer. I will just be happy knowing that the person who counts most still thinks I am hump-worthy, despite how I may feel or think I look in the so fucking pregnant stage of pregnancy. Yay pheromones and hormones and other moans.

 

Inventory December 18, 2011

Filed under: Boobs,Vagina — Scribbling Dame @ 9:59 pm
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It is a sad and true fact that while you are pregnant, everyone is watching your body and feels the need to comment on it. Your doctor is looking at it monthly, then weekly. You are watching it for all the right signs and hoping none of the “wrong” signs show up. And, the general public feels license to notice and articulate its observations, whether welcome or not.

I have been lucky this go a-round in that the general consensus is that this pregnancy has treated me well. I fit into the “adorable”  “can barely tell you are pregnant” categories–(not my words). This makes me happy because hopefully the avoidance of the double chin and the fat suit that doesn’t come off means less work for me when I actually make an effort to get my curves back post-pregnancy. Still, I think it’s only fair that I get to comment on the less obvious, as I recently took inventory of what the fuck is happening to this body in Round 2 of what I call, “Pregnancy is not for Pussies, except it is in the most literal sense.” Below are some things that I noticed I have gained, as well as some losses.

As you can see here, we are increasing boobs and losing ass...

Surplus:

Nipple circumference: You could land a jumbo jet on my areolas. Now, I am all for the beauty of pregnancy and am totally impressed at what the body does to handle the development of a baby, but what in God’s name is the point of larger nipples? I am pretty sure my kid can see when it comes out, and even if not, the mouth will know the nipple. My husband can also locate my nips fairly easily–probably even better than a hungry infant. WTF nature?

Belly fuzz: Thank God I am Scottish or else the slight peach fuzz on my stomach might actually need a waxing. Apparently nature believes my stomach might get cold. So much for evolution.

Boobs: I’ve whined enough on this topic. I am starting to think the bigger size is so I don’t fall over from the belly circumference…or, my husband is in God’s favor, which would be especially odd since he leans towards the agnostic…

Losses:

I have a washboard ass. It has literally disappeared. If you rolled a marble off my shoulder and down my back it would go in a straight line down to the floor. I am going to have to buy the Spanx with the built-in Kim K. feature after this. I’ve always been sadly caucasian in the caboose–a great wide expanse, but I accidentally saw myself walking away in a mirror the other day and it’s one of my life’s regrets.

Vagina. It might be gone entirely for all I know, or, there has been a hostile takeover. I guess we’ll know when it’s time for labor. Rumor has it that’s where babies come out–though that didn’t work out the last time for me.

Overall, I think we’ll be up one baby and while it will mean a need for a stronger workforce, it should also result in large gains of happiness margins.

 

You don’t even want to know… October 20, 2011

Filed under: Boobs,Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 12:53 pm
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Disclaimer: You may hate me a little after this post. Also I am pregnant and very grumpy.

I know this is intended to come from a good place, but one of my pregnancy pet peeves is when people ask, “how are you feeling?” It’s not just that they ask the question. It’s that they ask it like your dog just died. It’s like asking someone in the hospital how they are feeling. Perhaps more annoying than the question, is that I can, nine times out of ten, not actually answer genuinely. I can’t tell my boss or my colleagues how I’m really feeling. It’d sound like this, “I can’t see my vagina anymore. I haven’t shit for a week. I’m tired and don’t want to work anymore. I also feel like a giant stomach even though I am barely starting to show, which makes me terrified of how I will feel when I am actually big. I thought that meeting was total bullshit. Also I hate stupid fucking questions I can’t answer.” That’s the real answer most days, but instead I have to resort to the polite, “A little tired, but otherwise good” response that shows an acceptable amount of suffering but generally a good attitude. I am trying to avoid talking to people as much as possible, since I don’t have a lot of faith in my ability to filter at the moment. Thankfully I can work from home a lot.

I will henceforth let Nicki Minaj tell you how I am feeling.

I will also be really pissed if my boobs are getting bigger, and I think they are. Seriously, I thought a G-cup was big enough to carry over milk to baby #2, but my cleavage is looking pretty deep, confirming my conviction that I really do need to be Dolly Parton for Halloween one of these years, but son-of-a-bitch! I just dropped major coin on some nice bras at Nordstrom, and now I will not only have to buy tarmac-sized nursing bras, but I’ll probably have to get all new bras again. Guess Sofia doesn’t need to go to college–“Sorry honey, you need to get scholarships because Mommy’s tits took over a small island and she had to buy bigger bras from the Army Special Forces to contain them, which ran up a 2 million dollar bill.”

I will end by saying I don’t actually hate people, and where possible, try and appreciate my giant bazooms. Just everything in moderation people…I am off to Taco Bell, because the baby is making me do it.

 

To Barbie or not to Barbie: a feminist dilemma November 21, 2010

Filed under: Boobs,Mommy Issues,SuperWoman Syndrome,Vagina — Scribbling Dame @ 10:00 pm
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It happened. Sofia has asked for a Barbie for Christmas from Santa.

I always knew this day would come but I did not expect it so soon. As far as I knew, she had never seen a Barbie, but she says she saw one at Preschool.

So, I go back in forth in my mind. We all know she has the dimensions of a stripper and dresses like a hooker with whore make-up to boot. We all know she was the offspring of a German sex toy and that her dimensions on a real woman would mean that she would be incapable of walking. This is feminism 101.

You naughty minxes!

I also know that my Barbies got dressed 50 times for one date and then had sex all the time–unprotected no less! Besides maybe riding in a Dream House elevator or pink corvette, I can remember making my Barbies doing nothing else.

I can also say that I never thought of Barbie as a real person. I never thought I should look like her or be like her, although I confess that even now a swimsuit that changes color in water is probably something I would still buy. So, Santa will be supplying her a Barbie this year–on a pink Vespa no less. Grandma will give her a friend for Barbie–who happens to be African American. (Did you know they make a RocaWear Barbie? Now that’s street.)

Don’t get me wrong, walking down the Barbie isle at Toys-R-Us was shocking. There were some Barbies that  had more make-up on than Snooki or a “preschool teacher” Barbie that was dressed like Pam Anderson. I am not saying that these images are totally harmless or that they haven’t reinforced some unhealthy perceptions and habits.

Hmmm. Didn't see this one. Must've been sold out.

However, after my mental tug-o-war on this topic I realized there are an infinite number of negative and unrealistic images of women out there. The best gift I can give my daughter is teaching her the skill of living in this world confidently despite those images–whether they come from toys or the media or even her own friends in the teenage years.

Barbie shall be lesson numero uno.

 

I would much rather be a humanist. November 8, 2010

Filed under: Boobs,Mommy Issues,SuperWoman Syndrome,Vagina — Scribbling Dame @ 10:34 pm
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An “ism” usually gets a bad name. There are not a lot of good “isms” in the world. In fact, I am having a hard time thinking of just one example of a good “ism.” Vagism–nope. Communism–nope. Socialism–maybe. One “ism” that seems to always ruffle feathers is the dreaded “f” word: feminism. As a definite feminist even I sometimes cringe at the label, because it often equates with man-hater, terrible parent, and other undesirable qualities.

Yet every time I think of shirking the label, the gravitational pull of the lack of equality in our society burns in my gut in a way that is frankly too compelling to ignore. I cannot turn a blind eye to this kind of injustice, and I especially can’t ignore illogical behaviors and policies, particularly since becoming a mother. It does not make any god-damned sense to me why, since I am the breadwinner in my family, I will make 70 cents to the dollar to the guy next to me because he has a wang and doesn’t deliver babies. This is one example of many.

And so, this is why for now, I must remain a feminist. My ultimate fantasy is that one day I will be privileged enough to focus on human rights, because the gender gaps will be moot.

So, what is a feminist to do in a time of trouble? She turns to her icons and her mentors. In my case, I  happened across a brief interview with the mother of all feminists, Gloria Steinem, who gracefully articulates the true spirit behind feminism, which is about individual freedoms and fairness that is for the greater good.

Enjoy the video. I shall be burning my bra whilst you watch.

Feminism Celebrates the Individual

 

Boobs cause a ruckus. Again. October 23, 2010

Filed under: Boobs — Scribbling Dame @ 8:29 pm
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Thankfully for once it is not my boobs getting someone in trouble.

A group of Washington state high school football referees, trying to support the Susan G.Komen foundation are in hot water for trying to save the boobies of the world.

They chose to donate their paychecks from this weeks games to the foundation, and along with it used pink whistles, which is apparently a referee uniform violation. Two things should be noted here. 1)The violation is to use any color other than black, not just pink. 2) Technically black is not considered a color, but rather a shade, as any one who took a high school art class probably knows.

I digress.

So the assholes at the Federation of Fucks (aka the Washington Officials Association) are going to suspend the refs for another two games–making them go without three weeks worth of pay in the long run. The head fuck, Todd Stordahl says he had to make an example out of the refs for not getting permission ahead of time to break the rules. This statement makes it painfully obvious that his brain is made from styrofoam, since it’s not really breaking the rules when you ask permission. Furthermore, since when was there ever a rule against being a decent, generous, and thoughtful human being?

The Pacific Northwest Football Association is working on getting this all figured out. They must like boobies more than Stordahl. What a boob scrooge.

This is an incredible photo.

 

Cranky? Maybe your boobs need a good night’s sleep. September 17, 2010

Filed under: Boobs — Scribbling Dame @ 4:52 pm
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One of the fun parts of being a woman is the expectation that you accessorize. Accessories is a broad enough categorization so that it can include almost any bauble that one can throw their money away on for the sake of maintaining an image of womanhood. Womanhood necessitates accessorization.

The accessory can range from cute shoes or earrings, to stylish baby to sexy husband to fancy laptop to meat dress. Ahem. Ok, so that last one may be a little extreme…

We all know there is a lot of equipment that goes into womanhood, and I am glad that the folks at Kush have not overlooked those of us who have perhaps the best accessory that God can grant us: boobies.

At the end of a long day of bringing home the bacon and maintaining our household, our bodies are tired, and your boob exhaustion should not be underestimated or overlooked. Give your boobs the rest they need by sleeping with the Kush pillow nestled between your fun bags.

Check it out: Boob Pillow

In case you are wondering if it works, you should rest assured because the hot Dr. from that show The Doctors endorses it on the website. He is a renowned authority on TTS (tired titty syndrome) and is launching a public awareness campaign to ensure that all of our racks stay rested and perky. Plus, he is on TV so you know you can totally trust his advice.

So buy one and give your twins the night off. Plus, you can buy them in cute matching skin tones!

For those of you who are on a tight budget in this economy, feel free to DIY and substitute the Kush pillow with your trusty dildo.

BTW, I may or may not be writing this at a happy hour with a vodka press and lime.

Happy Friday!

 

Visual Moments in Motherhood August 24, 2010

Filed under: Boobs,Mommy Issues — Scribbling Dame @ 8:55 am
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To make my blog more equal opportunity for you visual learners out there, I will now include a weekly post of an image that comes up when I google “mother image.” Because I am well-read and classy I will then enlighten you by interpreting how the image captures real moments in Motherhood.

Please enjoy the first installation below:

Thomas Sully, Mother and Child, 1827

If you breastfed your baby then you have been here. Clearly Sully is capturing the moment that a mother decides wearing a shirt is pointless because her bottomless pit of a child is just going to suck on her titties all the time. And, when they are not being ravaged by the child (or husband, not pictured) they just squirt fluids all over anyway requiring a new shirt but there are no shirts left because it has been 24 hours since laundry was done which means that all fabrics in the house are again filthy with puke, milk, and possibly defecation.

The mother, exhausted, passes out possibly from Vodka but definitely from exhaustion. The child, in an effort to participate in the trend of green living, clamps the nipple so as not to waste any precious resources.

Obviously that is what Sully was getting at.

 

Gym Retard July 2, 2010

Filed under: Boobs,SuperWoman Syndrome — Scribbling Dame @ 10:03 am
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Apologies for the use of a potentially offensive term. I mean it in the literal sense. Although I am guessing that if you are offended by the word “retard” you are probably offended by just about all my writing and probably aren’t reading this anyway…that means if you are still reading this you are totally inappropriate and we would probably be great friends.

So as part of Operation Be Healthier Than Mom I mentioned I am going the gym. I like my gym because it is literally across the street from my job so I can go during lunch and avoid eating out–two wins! I also like it because America’s Next Top Model wannabes do not work out there. It is a bunch of desk schmoes like me. Still, I am a very round mushy peg in a teeny toned hole.

Five indicators I don’t belong:

1) I sweat buckets. No one else seems to sweat at my gym except a couple really overweight dudes. I have very efficient pores, what can I say? I need a sweatband but I am not sure which is more embarrassing–a sweatband or dripping sweat. If this was the era of Flashdance, I’d be set.

2) I have giant boobs. Everytime I bend over while weightlifting it’s like a peep show bursting out of my sports bra. No one else has boobs at my gym. This is probably because they go more than three times a week.

My boobs: a blessing and a curse.

3) The old ladies are in better shape than me. The gray hairs have better asses in their work out tights. It makes me cry a little inside.

4)  Even though I work with a personal trainer once a week I still have no idea how to use gym equipment. I went to try the other day to do strength training in the weight room, which is a total sausage fest, and the bar on the thingy was missing. I looked for it, but then gave up. I also totally blanked on any exercises I have done with the free weights.

5) I can’t shower at a gym. It would take me too long to shower and reapply my make up and dry my damn hair. I just blow dry the sweat and touch up and go and it still takes me an hour and fifteen minutes to workout and disassemble and reassemble myself.

Do you ever go to a place where you just know you don’t belong? Do you pay to go there? I have a running joke in my family–I am an academic, not an athlete. Sheesh.

This baby has more game than me in the gym.

 

Breast-feeding is for Aliens October 20, 2009

Filed under: Boobs — Scribbling Dame @ 11:34 am
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So before I go on my rant, I want to say that of course I think breast-feeding (if you can do it) is the right choice. Not-to-mention it’s cheap and certainly appealing to those of us who don’t want to get out of bed to feed our newborn.

I did it. I only did it for 6 months, and it is probably the weirdest thing I have ever done, but I did it because I knew it was good for me and the baby and thankfully, it wasn’t that difficult for us. Even so, I could not fathom doing it for the recommended 2 YEARS!!!!

Let’s get real here: for most of us, the experience is not the beautiful Xanadu that many of our resources lead us to believe. The times as a new mother that I felt like the biggest freak on the planet was when I was breast-feeding and pumping. The first thing that made me cry as a pregnant lady was a picture in a Parents magazine of a woman in a suit skirt, with her laptop on her lap and not one but 2 pumps sucking the life force out of her. Looking at that photo was like seeing the Terminator in person–half human, half machine with a laptop no less! WTF?

I remember constantly squirting milk everywhere, trying not to be obscene in public while also trying to not drop the baby and maneuver the nipple into her mouth. I remember pumping at work (the only person in my whole company) in my office with the curtains I had to bring–terrified that the cheap-ass rod was going to fall down and reveal that I, too, had gone Terminator. I remember dropping the damn bag after pumping and spilling my personal liquid gold…chapped nipples at first… pointless shirt-wearing. For all my bitching, I am serious when I say I know I had it easy: Sofia latched right away and I never ran out of supply.

I just had to say this. Breast-feeding is a pain in the ass. There is no sunshine or birdies or rainbows that show up when you do it. My sincere respect goes out to you moms who don’t have it as easy as I did. You are truly Soldiers de Leche.

**for those of you who are easily entertained by random facts: breast-milk is non-dairy and is therefore Kosher.

 

 
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