Not pictured: dog.
Angst and Advertising September 27, 2012
Hey ladies– (warning to men: we are going to talk periods and tampons here so feel free to avert your eyes…)
Come here. You wanna know what?
People who make tampons and tampon commercials hate women. I mean, they really have to hate us.
Before I continue; yes, I got my period. Yes, I forgot I was going to get it back. And, yes, this is just in time for date night. Aargh. I acknowledge my angst and I embrace it.
It does not change what fucking assholes tampon advertisers and product managers are.
I am in the bathroom unwrapping my little buddy and do you know what it says on the package?
“Go get ’em.”
This is not even a fucking joke. My tampon wrapper is giving me cheesy, high school sports coach talk. For my vagina.
Exactly whom am I supposed to go get? Is my tampon supposed to get my vagina? Is this positive reinforcement for going another month without an unplanned pregnancy?
Or, is this a modern woman tampon? Am I going to go kill it in the boardroom now?
This is really me hitting my limit with lady product advertising and packaging. Every time I see a commercial for feminine products, I sort of start to hate women.
Women care about two things when it comes to vagina products;
1)We don’t want any embarrassing moments.
2)It’d be nice to not even realize we are using the product.
Here’s an idea. Why not turn that whole Ryan Gosling “hey girl” meme into a lady product advert? I’d much rather see his face on my tampon wrapper than fucking “go get ’em.” Go get ’em and fuck yourselves Playtex.
Time for chocolate! XoXo
Love in the time of Bieber August 20, 2012
It has occurred to me lately that my definition of “romance” has drastically changed in my eight years of marriage (12 years of togetherness), and of course many of these shifts have occurred after having a child, and now children.
Here are three things that I now consider romantic, that had you told my younger self these things, I would have definitely rolled my eyes and felt sorry for my now self, and thought I was a total weirdo.
1. Matching tattoos. This is a suggestion from my husband. This idea is cool to him because 1) the tattoos are on sale. Seriously–they are flash tattoos for $20 and my husband will buy almost anything if he feels like it’s a good deal. Secondly, it’s spontaneous and he likes that. I usually don’t because I am the responsible boring one, but I agree that being spontaneous is a definite prerequisite for many a romantic endeavor. So, I am seriously considering it, even though I am a total wimp and it’s gonna hurt, which is why I will go first.
2. Daytime sex. Woot! This is one all of you parents of non-napping children can appreciate. Most parents have to have sex late at night because that is their only opportunity for privacy. Before we had Ellie there was the occasional spontaneous nap that would afford some love time, but the odds of both our children being asleep simultaneously AND long enough for us to play “just the tip”…well let’s just say there are better odds at a Vegas card table.
3. Vasectomy. I am laughing as I write this, but I seriously think getting a vasectomy is in the top five most romantic gestures from my husband. Before you go thinking he must be really bad at being romantic (he’s not bad at all) consider this; he is going to let another person use a knife and cauterize him near his penis and ball sack areas–fully awake, so that he will NEVER produce sperm again. I can’t think of a more intense way to say “I’m in it for the long haul.” Besides having kids, of course. I’m just sayin’. That’s commitment people.
Pregnancy Resignation: Parting is such sweet sorrow… March 17, 2012
We are days from d-day… I can’t go in public anymore without concerned looks from the general population, all thinking “Damn girl, should you be out with that thing?” I keep tripping over my dog, because my belly hides me from seeing him at my feet. We are all just waiting for the last day of work, counting down the remaining to-dos and the list is almost non-existent. Even Sofia is impatiently asking, “When is Ellie going to get here?”
I am physically over being pregnant but equally nervous about delivery this go around as I was last time. It’s an impending bodily invasion, mixed with complete excitement at seeing her new little face, and at seeing Sofia become a big sister.
The weirdest thing about these last few days is I know I will never have them again–at least if things go according to plan. We aren’t having more than two, so this is basically all she wrote for my fertile shenanigans.
It’s like giving two weeks notice at a job you really love. The last two weeks drag on and there is so much bullshit you encounter and are relieved to be rid of. You know it’s a necessary close to a chapter in your life. But, then there are the sentimental moments too–the finality of knowing you will never have the experience there again. I won’t ever be woken up in the middle of the night because someone’s hiccuping in my belly. I will never have the best of excuses not to do dishes or to demand weird foods at my whim. It will no longer be acceptable to wear elastic pants (at least for a few more decades…)
Even more bizarre, I will soon enter an existence where the next milestones of my womanhood no longer include being the bride-to-be or mother-to-be, but something else-to-be.
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.
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
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.
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…
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.
Dear Medical Professionals… September 9, 2011
I am unsure why this is, but the most brutal prenatal appointment is your first one (of the pregnancy). For me, in the first trimester, I am nauseous, starving but the thought of eating is unappealing, thirsty but I can’t stand water, tired like I have the flu, and generally feeling like if I am not wrapped in a blanket on my couch, I am in imminent danger. So fun!
What could make this magical time even more fun? A pap smear! Just what every woman wants when she is bloated and has a swollen uterus. And to add to the excitement, tests for every STD imaginable–so you can find out if your husband is cheating on you or your slutty past caught up with you at just the right time! Plus, while your boobs feel like a very sensitive zit about to explode, you get a breast exam poking all up in there! All of this is just the fun you get to have with your doctor.
Even more fun awaits you at the lab where you get to sacrifice your precious bodily fluids; one million vials of blood and a pee cup. Yeehaw!
I feel like a total trooper this time around because I got through it without even crying. I suppose it is good training for the reality in motherhood that your body is no longer your own–ever since Sofia I have been poked, prodded, elbowed, head butt, stirrupped, kneed, bonked, tugged, etc., etc. Still, I stopped for my requisite ice cream to blunt the mama trauma.
UVS: Ugly Vagina Syndrome August 30, 2011
Apparently I am out of the loop on the latest fashion trends. It could be because I’m pregnant again, and have been trying to keep quiet about it for a few weeks just in case, which is so very hard for me. It could be because I am anxiously awaiting the new T.V. season so I don’t have to watch re-runs of Ellen. Never-the-less, I managed to totally overlook the fact that I should be critically assessing the prettiness of my vagina.
Apparently, if you are unfortunate enough to have an “ugly one” you can opt for vaginal reconstructive surgery, which is seeing a rise in occurrence among women with no apparent abnormalities. If she just needs a touch up or some pampering, you can consider a “vagacial” or “peach smoothie” spa treatment. Apparently your vagina can be too fat, too flabby, in need of exfoliation, a dye job, or for the more ambitious types: rhinestones instead of hair.
Don’t shoot the messenger! It’s not my fault if your vagina is sub-par!
My newfound knowledge of this trend has gotten me pondering a few questions:
1)Where does one find out if they have a pretty vagina? Or an ugly one for that matter? Is there a quiz in Cosmo? I am pretty sure no partner in their right mind is bringing it up!
2)How much time should a lady spend on grooming and examining her lady bits to ensure beauty standards are maintained? Is this a group activity?
3) Do vagina groomers specialize in this kind of spa treatment? Do they get a certification at beauty school, or is it just part of the standard curriculum?
I think given my limited availability in time and money and the fact that my husband still seems to like this pony ride, I will remain ignorant as to the ranking beauty of my vag. For the rest of you, go with God.
Oh yeah. Mom. May 4, 2011
Mother’s Day is coming up and before you bitch and complain about having to hang out with your old lady or drop coin on a present for her, you should consider how I suffer on this day–I have 3 mothers to buy for what with Step-mom and birth-mom and mom-in-law. I can’t get past a holiday like this without dropping at least $100 and that is on the cheap!
In my hustle and bustle to buy cards, have the kid scribble in them, find a stamp and order affordable, somewhat personalized gifts that won’t end up in a donation pile, I mentioned my process to a multitude of friends whose response was, “Oh. It’s Mother’s Day?”
Apparently I have been far too good of a daughter. Almost none of my friends do more than a card or phone call for their moms on Mother’s Day. To which I think–damn, how did I miss the memo? To which I also think, what a bunch of ungrateful bastards!
On the one hand I get it–it’s a pain. On the other hand, even if your mom was a shitty mom, my guess is you were still an inconvenience yourself at one time. Be it squeezing you out of the old birth canal and ruining a carefree slutty lifestyle or being a terror as a toddler, or a horrible teenager–your mom probably put up with shit from you at some point–the least you could do is cook a breakfast or put some thought into a trinket. At the very least, shitty mom taught you some valuable life lessons. At the best, if you had a decent mom who tried hard, royal treatment is in order (just think of how much you saved on therapy!)
Plus, whatever effort you put forth for your mother will be the same put forth for you from your kids. I don’t know about you, but I could use at least a day every year where my kid thought about making me happy–hopefully more!
Wow. That was quite a soap box. Now go make your mom a home-made card.
Uteran Fail April 12, 2011
Well let me just warn you that if you are reading this week for a laugh, you may want to keep looking. Unless it just happens to come out that way, this post is not likely to be funny. Just wanted to warn you in case you are looking for a laugh, which I think is pretty nice of me to give you the heads up instead of just posting a depressing post and you reading it thinking you got robbed of your funny.
I guess this is kind of funny so far, but don’t let me mislead you. Since I last posted (two weeks, I know) I both found out I was pregnant (Yay!) and then miscarried (boo). So, as usual, the best way for me to process feelings is publicly and unabashedly. I am not good at keeping secrets.
So, I have never had a miscarriage before even though 30% of women apparently do. It is a bizarre experience because, at least in my case, while it was happening, I wasn’t totally sure anything was wrong and it was unclear until test results confirmed that the minor bleeding was not in fact spotting, but my body “self-aborting.” Well, why the hell would myself do such a thing? I certainly did not give it permission.
It also seems liked a really fucked up scenario since I honestly forgot that I was trying to get pregnant, until I was pregnant then got all excited, then wasn’t pregnant again. The weirdest part is not knowing how to deal with it. You can’t really talk about it because you never really announced your pregnancy. And, it is simultaneously the worst thing that ever happened to you yet you go on with your life almost as if nothing happened–and so does everyone else of course. Unfortunately we learned the hard way not to tell our daughter she’s going to be a big sister until it’s a “sure thing.” The hardest part was explaining to a three-year old that the baby in mommy’s belly went away.
Not surprisingly, since guilt and motherhood are always holding hands, I started replaying in my mind things I should have done differently–maybe it was my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have traveled on that business trip or forgotten those prenatal vitamins that one day. Was I too stressed? Did I eat too much sugar? Am I too old?
The good news is that I have so many friends who have miscarried (multiple times) and still ended up with healthy babies, so I see firsthand the possibility of life after miscarriage.
So I guess I just go back and make another one. It only took a year the first time.
The Downside of Cute and Smart March 28, 2011
I recently had a girlfriend tell me I was too smart to be happy. I immediately knew it to be true, and I simultaneously found it depressing. I over-think every fucking thing. I have to deconstruct my happiness. If it weren’t for blogging I’d probably implode. I can recall plenty a time in my life when I wished to be a smarter than dumb, and dumber than smart, particularly in my younger days when I got dumped three times in a row for being too smart.
While I like to think I am cute, too, this post isn’t about me. It has occurred to me that there is also a downside to having a cute and smart kid. I will start with smart. Smart kids know how to manipulate and who best to manipulate. My father-in-law stands no chance against my three-year old. All she has to do is bat an eyelash and the world is hers on a platter (or more specifically gelato when she was one year old). My husband and I were both wishing she was a little more dense the other day when we told her no more movies and she went and got a DVD out of its case, opened the DVD player, loaded the damn thing, and then started it. She asked me six months ago what migration is! Which, that’s actually fine but I am worried about what she’ll be asking me six months from now!
So now we get to cute. I ran into a coworker today who just met my daughter last week and said “she is so cute I would have given her anything she wanted!” Immediately I heard those words coming out of store vendor’s mouths, teenage boy mouths, and club bouncer mouths. I can hear myself doing an internal slow motion “Noooooooo.”
And maybe this is why a granddaughter is a mother’s best revenge. I can already anticipate all the ways she will use her brains against me and her looks to gain advantages that I don’t want her to have.
This post probably proves that I am too smart to be happy, now that I think about it.
Baby Dream Killers January 12, 2011
It’s human nature to think in terms of grass is greener, but have any of you noticed that while you are trying to conceive, it suddenly seems that every asshole who looks at their partner gets knocked up?
And by assholes I mean beloved friends and family. (Kisses!)
Seriously though, it is annoying. The first couple of announcements are okay–we all know we are having sex with our partners and babies tend to go along with that. But I was talking with a girlfriend today who has had no less than 10 friends have a baby in the last year while she is trying to conceive. That is just a big middle finger from the universe if you ask me. It’s an incredibly bizarre phenomenon. It happens with single women and marriage also.
On the outside, most of us are gracious friends and we will of course attend showers, supply pickles and whatever other duties will make us remain good friends, but internally let’s be real–whiny hater brat comes out and says, “But it’s MY turn! You are stealing my vaginal thunder! You didn’t even try that hard!”
This phenomenon only adds to the already predominant trying-to-conceive dilemma, prevalent in all things motherhood: it is not as easy as we were raised to think it is. Sometimes the old in-and-out does the trick but for most of us these days, since we are conceiving later in life, we have to be more intentional. After only a year of trying with no success, the medical profession labels you as “infertile.” If you are over 35, your pregnancy is “geriatric.” There are few other processes we will encounter in our lives that are less forgiving than parenthood in all it’s stages.
I always come around and try to look on the bright side–after whining internally and then blogging about it of course. Parenthood will happen when it is meant to and how it is meant to. Also, “failing” to conceive is probably one of the only things in life that provides a pretty nice consolation prize. If failure was always so awesome, who’d want to achieve?
The Marathon Sex Diet December 7, 2010
It’s the holidays which means a lot of things for a lot of people. For almost every woman it means eating things you feel guilty about and lamenting your ever-growing waistline with the full knowledge that come January, it is your womanly duty to become a Resolutionary and discipline yourself back to an acceptable size and shape.
We also know that almost always, those good intentions never work out in the long term.
Fear not! As I was thinking about moving into a monastery where fast food and yummy mixed drinks are not allowed, I came up with an idea that frankly makes me a god-damned genius.
With the various diets I have tried–okay only Weight Watchers–I was shocked to find that there was no physical activity points given for sex. If a ten minute walk counts for activity, then I definitely think that sex should count. And, unlike all those other diets out there, having more sex to lose weight sounds like a diet I could actually follow through on. I don’t know a woman, even those with great sex lives, who wouldn’t opt for more.
Top three reasons why you should try the Marathon Sex Diet:
1) You don’t need a membership or any new gear to get started! (unless you want some of course).
2) Everyone can afford it. (See Note below)
3) I’m not making any guarantees, but it’ll probably create world peace! We all know that sex-starved men leads to more violence in the world.
My minutes of extensive Google research shows that on average, an hour of vigorous sex burns 300 calories! That’s the same as a treadmill and potentially way more rewarding! As women, it is our duty to multi-task. You might as well orgasm, lose weight and keep the love in your relationship alive.
Good luck, happy humping, and feel free to comment with your sucsex stories!
Note: potential side effects include pregnancy and chafing. Use precautions.
To Barbie or not to Barbie: a feminist dilemma November 21, 2010
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.
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.
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.