Are you ok? Do you need me to bake you some cookies? Because I will.
I’m worried about you.
Love,
Me
COOKAYS!
On the way to the hospital, my husband said “You have to wait on me hand and foot when I get home.”
“Oh really?” I replied.
“Yes. And you have to bake me cookies and serve them to me on a platter! Look! It shows you right here in the vasectomy handbook.”
Oh, how I laughed, because that? Was hilarious.
Whenever we’d talk about The Vasectomy, he would tell me about his fears. I would listen, then ever so gently remind him about the pain that I endured, three times over, to give him the children he loves so much. (Without an epidural and HELLO? I tore down there and had stitches.)
When he went in on Thursday, I knew he was scared, but when I’d ask him, he’d say “I’m ok, what you went through was SO MUCH WORSE.”
He was being sincere, I know he was, but I couldn’t help but feel like a jerk. Yeah, what I went through was worse but it was unfair of me to diminish what he would be going through just because “MINE HURT WORSE, MAN.”
My husband is admittedly a baby when he’s sick or in any amount of pain and yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s something about seeing him laying there with a bag of frozen peas on his lap that makes me want to take care of him and feel sorry for him and get him whatever his little heart desires. I LOVE that he did this for us, I love that he’s “taking it like a man” (whatever the hell that means) and I love that every time he hurts, he chants “My wife gave birth, my wife gave birth, THIS IS NOTHING, my wife gave birth.”
It kinda makes me want to jump his bones. Except, I am pretty sure that if I did that right now, I may kill him.
So, instead, I do nice things, like go to Barnes and Noble to buy him the latest copy of Shotgun News, let him control the remote, wake up every 2 hours to make sure he’s comfortable. But most importantly?
I bake him some cookies.
Finally.
“It” is done. And “It” is quite possibly the most HILARIOUS thing that has EVER happened in our marriage and I can not wait to tell you all about it.
But for now, there are bags of frozen peas to be applied, beers to be fetched, tylenols to be given, cookies to be served on a shiny platter (because THAT’S WHAT THE WIFE IS SUPPOSED TO DO! And there’s a picture in the vasectomy book to prove it!) and a pair of stitched up balls in need of a little love and um, tenderness.
*For the Record: I have full permission to post the photos.
Just Uttered…
“Oh man, I’ve got to shave this thing tonight!”
(Because, tomorrow? The Shit is getting snipped.)
*Celebrates*
Prissay
I’ve been taking G-Unit to the park everyday after I drop the boys off at school. I go for a walk, do some squats, throw in a few totally awesome kick boxing moves and then we head for the playground for some fun on the slides and swings.
I love watching my daughter play with the other children. She’s so… girlie. I didn’t expect that from a daughter of mine. I’ve never been very “girlie” or “feminine”. In fact, my husband used to do this cute little thing where he’d introduce me to his friends as “My Wife, The Trucker.” I guess I always imagined that if I had a daughter, she’d be just like me! Man, was I wrong.
And I’m happy I was wrong. I can’t tell you how much fun it is to watch my daughter stand on the sidewalk, her tiara placed proudly atop her head, hands placed sweetly on her hips, twirling from side to side while she shouts to the neighbors “Look! I pretty! Look! Lala’s pretty!”
(My daughter wears a tiara! And she likes it. Doesn’t she know that her mommy hates tiaras?)
Sometimes, her “Girlie-ness” can be very annoying. Like when she cries because her nail polish is chipped, (“More polish mommy! MORE POLISH! WAH!”) or when she has a meltdown because I refuse to let her play with the lipstick that she snuck out of my purse. But most of the time, watching her act “like a girl” is the most fulfilling experience of my life. Especially when she emerges from her bedroom, wearing nothing but a tutu and her tap shoes whilst twirling with her hands in the air singing her ABC’s.
Through her, I’m finding out that being “girlie” (“feminine” whatever.) can be fun. I’m starting to like the idea of painting my nails “just because” and not only when I have a wedding to attend. That said, I will NEVER like tiaras. (Nor, will I ever give up burping contests or farting whenever the hell I want to.)
Attempt #1 to break free from The Writers Funk
I had tortilla soup for lunch.
Obviously, Wanna Be Writer’s Block is still in full effect.
Years ago, I hired a personal trainer. (I hired him for 10 sessions, but only actually showed up to 3 because Oh.My.God. He wore Dove shorts! And had excessive body hair! He seriously grossed me out enough to not show up for 7 PREPAID sessions, because DUDE…Dove shorts.) In the 3 workouts that I managed to get through without puking, he taught me proper techniques for lifting weights and using the machines.
I have to admit that deep down, I feel superior because of my (very limited) knowledge of weight lifting technique, but the truth is, I really don’t know shit.
Last night, I was laying on the bench, doing some free weight chest presses, quite possibly feeling cocky whilst using my Proper Weight Technique, when all of a sudden, my left arm starting burning like a bitch. I thought it was strange that I hardly felt anything in my right arm, but justified it by saying “Well, I’m right handed, so my left arm is weaker!”
I noticed a woman walk by and look at me, because at that point, I could barely lift my left arm. My right arm was all up in the air waiting for the left one to get up there and join it. I was grunting and pushing myself through the lobsided pain, when I suddenly realized the problem.
I was using a 8 pounder on my left arm and a 5 pounder on my right. I was mortified because HAHA! I’m a jackass! But, instead of correcting the problem by getting the proper weights, I tried to play it off by switching the weights, as if to say “YEAH, I DID IT ON PURPOSE.”
I can’t help but worry a little bit about having uneven arms, like, one being bigger than the other. Like my boobs!
(PigHunter also recently pointed out to me that one of my eyes is smaller than the other, so I’m just one big, sexy hunk of uneven body parts! Too bad for you, I’m Taken, bitches.)
I need to look into taking up a sport because 2 days a week of Aerobic Dancing isn’t going to cut it and Freestyling it at the gym just isn’t working out the way that I had hoped it would. As much as I wanted to believe that it would grow on me and that one day I’d love it, maybe even master it, my unequally sore arms are further prove that it just isn’t “my thang” and I don’t think that it ever will be.
Because “something” is better than “nothing.”
I’m tired as hell, but I still woke up with a spring in my step and a smile on my face because, it’s Tuesday and you know what that means, right?
Oprah and Gayle’s Big Adventure! That’s what.
I’m not even joking a little bit when I tell you that Tuesdays have become the greatest day of the week because of their sweet lil’ road trip. Let there be no confusion, I am still not a “fan” of tom cruise, infact, this road trip has made me dislike her even more, but Gayle, on the other hand.
Lord have mercy, I love me some Gayle.
She’s funny, carefree, she doesn’t take herself too seriously and the thing that I love the most about her? She calls tom cruise out on her shit. (Like when they got in the fight about the Paul Simon song and she was all “you’re just mad because I don’t get it the way you get it and you want everyone to think like you.” Or something really similar to that. OH SNAPS, G.)
[small voice]I want to be Gayle’s friend and go to step class with her.[/small voice]
Speaking of “getting called out”…
I think I need a pair of “fun pants!”
WannaBe Writer’s Block strikes again.
I keep sitting down to write about things. Things that have happened to me, things that my children have said that have made me laugh, things that they have done that have nearly decapatated me. Things that have happened to friends of mine (OMG! My friend from high school won $100,000 on Deal or No Deal and he invited me to his celebration party!) Things that have happened on TV (Peter from the Amazing Race is AN ASS. Did Jeffrey have outside help to finish his collection? HAHA NEW YORKS REACTION TO GETTING REJECTED A SECOND TIME BY FLAVOR FLAV!)
But everytime I write, I end up hitting “delete” two minutes later.
Because… boring! And also lame.
Maybe tomorrow.
(But seriously? Did you watch Flavor of Love? AWESOMENESS)
Me so Aerobic
Last night was The Second Return to Aerobic Dance Class.
You see, I had been avoiding it since the night that I had decided it would be a great idea to wear a thong to class.
I always wear my granny panties to class, because they are comfortable and I want to be comfortable when I’m doing great moves, such as The Monkey. Here’s the thing. My Aerobic Dance instructor is adorable and I love her and I secretly want to be just like her, Russian accent and all.
The other night, I got the crazy idea to be just like Anna and NOT wear granny panties, but instead, to wear the ONE thong that I own. (Which, haha, is about a whole size too small.) I was all “I want to be sexy when I’m bending over during the stretches just like Anna!”
About 5 minutes into the dance (which happened to be “The Latin Dance”.) I realized that I had made a huge mistake by wearing the thong to dance class. The first time that I took a step, my ass opened up and swollwed that thing WHOLE and OMG! PAIN! EMBARASSMENT! SHAME! But mostly… PAIN!”
All I could think about was how obvious it must have been to everyone behind me that my ass had eaten my thong and I couldn’t think about anything but “the missing thong.” I was trying to get into the dance, to be one with the dance, to let my aerobic dance greateness shine through like it always does, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid thong. Anna would be all “Mambo!” and I would be all “SHIT! THONG! UP MY ASS! CAN’T.MOVE!”
I may as well have worn a blinking sign on my ass that night.
.
(Oh Em Gee, is she avoiding talking about her previous entry? I think she is!)
That was the first time that I did not enjoy an aerobic dance class. The first time that I almost faked getting injured so that I could leave class early. The first time that I walked out saying “I’LL NEVER GO BACK AGAIN!”
(Oh, so hilarious when I get all cinematically dramatic about aerobic dance class.)
God, that sounds so dumb. Vowing to never do something that I love so much because my ass decided to “chew a little fiber”, wounding my precious crack and quite possibly my pride. But? I hadn’t gone back since that class.
Until last night.
Do I need to tell you that I didn’t wear a thong, but, rather, a very large pair of pale blue cotton panties that have pictures of “water wells” scattered about?
When Anna saw me, she asked me where I had been for all of these weeks, because she’s missed me “so much.” I thought about it for a second. “UM, how do I tell this women that I haven’t been here because I was humiliated when the thong that I wore in a lame attempt to be just like her, was viciously chewed up and swallowed by my buttocks?”
“I’ve just been lazy.” I blurted out.
“Oh, don’t be lazy! Come! Dance! I need you here.”
(Oh my God! She needs me! Anna needs me!)
And then, she did the greatest thing that anyone has done for me in like 4 whole days and said “Well, I’m happy you’re here! Tonight, we do The Dirty Dance.
My God, I love that woman.
But not as much as I love thrusting my hips to a beautiful melody and “Then you roll your tongue, from the crack back to the front” blasting from the speakers.