You’re Mom Now!

Wait, what?  I mean, I know I was pregnant for 39 1/2 long, tiring weeks.  And I sure remember labor (it has that name for a reason), and I even remember meeting my son for the first time (kind of weird).  But now we pack up, put him in that infant car seat (with the help of the nurse…how the hell do we use this thing?) and go home.

Yikes.  Well, we can handle this.  We’ve been listening to people for the last ten months say things like “get your sleep now!” and “you’re going to be tired!” and “eventually you and your husband are going to get on each others nerves!” so we’re prepared.  But here’s the kicker – neither of us has any real, solid experience with newborns.  Babies, in general really.  I have three nephews, but by the time they were coming to stay the night at my place they could wipe their own behind.  And the one time I baby sat them where one of them COULDN’T wipe their own behind, the oldest one would do it for me, for a price.

While I was pregnant I did my best to stay off the internet.  I had a pretty easy pregnancy, with just a couple of bad days and a handful of days where I was less than agreeable.  Towards the end, of course, I hated everyone and everything that I came in contact with.  And every time I looked at my giant, swollen ankles I wanted to cry, but I did NOT want to see what childbirth looked like; I did NOT want to know what it felt like – I figured going in blind was best.  Of course, multiple people wanted to tell me their horror stories (I can tune anyone out.  If you’re telling me something and I’m nodding but barely engaging, I’m not listening to you.  So if you want active conversation change the topic.  If you just want to talk at someone, like a bunch of people I know, please, continue talking).  It worked for us – contractions friggin hurt (anyone who says they don’t, or they feel like bad cramps is lying).  The epidural was a welcome relief, and the rest of the labor was really okay.

It’s what comes after that I wasn’t prepared for.

You still look pregnant.  For a little while, too.  For me, it lasted about two and a half weeks, and now I can’t tell if my uterus is still a little out there, or if I’m just down to the part of the baby weight I have to lose (that doesn’t bother me at all – everyone bitches about how hard it is to lose weight…and it is…but its easier than labor as far as I’m concerned.  Now if only my husband would stop buying the Italian cookies I love so much…).

You’re sore.  And then when you get home, you’re still sore.  That stays for a little while too.  If you had an episiotomy, that’ll hurt too.  So much for going through life without getting stitches.  At the hospital, though, they gave me this spray that is a pain-killer.  Buy more of that.  If they let you, take more of it home from the hospital – its great.

You have all sorts of feelings.  When you’re pregnant, you have all sorts of feelings too, but now its different.  You have all these feelings, your hormones are still wild, your body is still a train wreck, and you have this little, tiny person whose whole world revolves around you.  So, yeah.  Lots of feelings.  If you have these sad feelings, and they don’t go away…talk to someone.  ALSO if you are lucky enough to have new mothers that you’re friends with – start-up some group text chats to complain.  One Hundred Percent got me through the “I Have Gas” meltdown of 2016 (more on that later).

If you choose to breastfeed, it sucks.  Seriously, it sucks.  You’re going to get sore, and at some point you will question your sanity and if it’s all worth it.  There are problems that can come with breastfeeding, that we don’t really need to talk about right now, but there are solutions for each of them.  You may cry.  You may fall asleep breastfeeding and wake yourself up snoring.  You may consider formula every time your little guy wants to eat NOW, even if you just put something in the oven that will most likely burn if you start nursing your slow eating, gluttonous baby.  Talk to a lactation consultant, it literally turned our world around.  I was ready to quit, and we’re sticking with it.  In some weird sense, I can understand why some of these mothers who continue to breastfeed will get on their high horse about it.  It is HARD work, and you want people to acknowledge what you’re doing.  From what I understand, it gets easier (it already has…we don’t need to nurse every two hours.  Thank you, Jesus).

Based on what you choose to do, formula feeding or supplementing may be the way to go – regardless of what other people say, whatever choice you make is the best choice for you and your child (now, for breastfeeding, I will say it is a good way to get out of any visit you want to.  “Sorry!  Time to eat!” quick exit to the nursery with your iPad and you’re good).

We came into this not knowing really how to change a diaper, or swaddle the baby – or even really how to hold him.  We’re not experts, at all (except my husband, he’s the Master Diaper Changer.  He should give classes), but we are learning every day.  And every time we look down at this little meatball that will eventually learn to call us “Mom” and “Dad” (and he better f-ckin say Mom first), or he smiles at us, or wraps his tiny little fingers around my husband sausage fingers, you almost forget all the tough things that you dealt with.  I say “almost” because I am absolutely documenting these things to tell his future girlfriend (provided I approve of her, and she’s not a skank).

Uh oh, heard a little noise from the nursery….time to eat!

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Sorry Fellas

The Beefcake asked me to marry him.  And of course, I said yes.  After a romantic “are you f-cking kidding me?” and a “wait, did you ask my parents?”

He did.  And both of them said (separately) “are you sure?  She’s pretty annoying” or “You have to ask her, she hasn’t asked me for permission to do anything since she was 18” (touche).

So, from what I understand, you don’t get to skip from the engagement phase to the being married phase.  You have to plan a wedding.  And while I LOVE planning things – hell…one of my favorite things to do is make lists – it seems quite the large task.  And there are so many options.  Where do you have it?  Do you have it at home, or do you have it at another place?  Do you have a wedding party? If yes, how many people?  And what if you upset someone by not asking them to be in your wedding party?  What if you upset someone by asking them TO be in your wedding party?  How many people do you invite?  What do you wear?  What the hell are we all going to eat?

Now, a lot of people who I’ve spoken to have dropped a few pearls of wisdom:

1. Enjoy being engaged (I like that advice)

2. Elope (I kind of like that advice, takes all the guess-work out of it)

3. It goes by fast (prove it)

Aside from all that, its been so nice to hear all the kind words from my friends and family and coworkers, congratulating us and wishing us well.  Regardless of what we plan for the wedding part, I’m pretty confident it’ll turn out just as wonderful as the past two years have been, if not better.

 

Ain’t no getting rid of me now, pal.

 

 

I need to sit up straight

I need to sit up straight

 

i’m a little bit country…

….and about 33% White Trash.

That’s the beauty of being me – I have a diverse enough background to allow me to make fun of just about any group of people (all in jest) without offending anyone.  White Trash?  Sure, I got some of that in my family.  Boricua?  Yea, I’m a little Puerto Rican.  We have con artists, connoisseurs, bikers, business men…the whole lot in my clan.  So I have a free range to say whatever the heck I want.

I’ve been having an internal battle the past few days trying to decide what my 70th post should be about.  Something funny?  Something serious?  Something about doing good for others?  A family story?  Work?  nahhhhhh lets talk about some history….

A few years ago, my old roommate and I decided to go to a party in Pennsylvania.  It was thrown by a friend of hers who wanted to create a new tradition.  Enter the First Annual “White Trash Bash”. 

We slapped on our most redneck comparable gear, loaded my mongrel into her black, three door Saturn and began our journey.  When we got to the party, it was pretty much exactly what we expected – loads of people drinking cheap beer in lawn chairs wearing cut off jeans and wife beaters, with a pig on a spit.  The host had activities planned (egg toss, nail-in-the-log, flip cup, beer pong, keg toss, blowing stuff up), and we settled right in, tying my dog to a tree and playing games.

*note* my old roommate was kick ass at the nail in the log game – which I hated – I won the female division of the keg toss (and immediately called my mother to tell her – boy was she proud), and we joined forces in Flip Cup, winning several heated games and the overall tournament until the other patrons kindly asked us to stop playing. 

As the night went on, we grew more and more tired.  I decided to retire to the car and take a nap – with my dog.  I should probably mention that it had rained, and we were both pretty dirty.  PeeWee and I meandered down the block to where my old roommate had parked the car, climbed in the back, pulled the Navaho blanket (wait, where did that come from?) over us, and settled in for a nap.

We were drifting off into a sweet, blissful slumber…when my phone started ringing.  “Brown Eyed Girl“, the song I used as  my old roommates ring.  “What the hell does she want?” I grumbled to myself, ignoring the call.

And she called again.

And again.

And again.

Finally I answer and ask her what she wants.  “Where are you?” She asks.

“I’m asleep in your car. What do you mean?”

“No you’re not”

“yes I am”

that banter continues for a few minutes, when I open the door to show her that I’m IN her car…and she starts laughing.  “oh man.  Get out of that car!”

So apparently at some time during the evening, my old roommate moved her car to the other side of the street.  And I was sleeping, with a dirty dog, in a complete strangers car.  Here’s the kicker – it was the same make and model as my old roommates car.  The only differences were the color (it was a dark red, hers was black, but it was night out and there were no street lights) and there were antlers and that bizarre blanket I had curled up in.

Needless to say, neither of us has gone back to the White Trash Bash.  We did host our own the following summer – but it wasn’t quite the same.

sneaky sneaky pants

Fact: When people meet me, they think I’m a bitch

Fact: I am okay with that

Fact: I’m not really that much of a bitch…if I like you.  In fact, some might argue I’m quite the friend.

Case in Point:

My old housemate and bestie has her birthday every year on Memorial Day weekend.  When we were living together, we would kind of do a “Summer Kick Off” Memorial Day weekend, and celebrate her birthday – and then close out the summer with mine, which falls on Labor Day weekend.  We like to mash it in with the holiday because neither of us really are into the whole “big birthday celebrations”

Anyways, this heifer got sick of me referring to her as my “wife” and moved back to the Dirty Dirty just in time for her 30th birthday.  A few months ago I asked her “wife, even though you’re estranged, we can still do something for your birthday, did you have anything in mind?”  I got back an emphatic “I DONT WANT TO DO ANYTHING FOR MY BIRTHDAY AND I’M SERIOUS, IF YOU TRY AND SURPRISE ME I WILL BE SO MAD AT YOU”.

yea, okay.

kick-start: Operations Rae-Rae Turns Dirty-Dirty Thirty in the Dirty-Dirty J.

We planned, and planned, and planned.  We even got some feedback from some family members warning us against surprising her.  Did we listen?  Hellmuthafuckinno! 

I am not a good secret keeper when it comes to good stuff, but the best part about the party planning?  15 of us flanking her while she napped on the beach, and the look of shock when all was said and done.  Who doesn’t like a surprise party!

Communists, thats who.

oh, Cupid.

As evident by all the decorations since New Years Eve, Valentine’s day is rapidly approaching.

watch out for those stray arrows!

I like listening to all the different views on Valentine’s day.  We have the couples in their newly wed phase, who can’t wait for their date night, (complete with candy and roses).  We have the couples that have been together for a long time, that judge the newly weds for their blissful anticipation, yet secretly yearn for the days their husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife used to romance them, and we have the couples like my folks, who have been married for-friggin-ever, and still celebrate like they’re newlyweds…

…and then we have the single folk.  And they’re further separated into the “bitter” single, the “desperate” single, and the “oh, well” single folks.  I have friends in all these different categories, and the weeks headed up to Valentine’s day provides money for much, much writing material.

One of my very best friends is going through a rough patch in her life.  She’s hitting a landmark birthday, she recently realized the fella she was dating is a d-ckhead (I’m allowed to say that, cause he didn’t like me – go figure), and she’s coming up to Valentine’s day.  She’s kinda bummed about it because she really doesn’t like being single – and this reminds me of a very special Valentine’s day I spent with her years ago.

I often joke that she’s my wife.  One year, neither of us had plans on Valentine’s day, so I figured I’d be the best wife ever and take her to Olive Garden.  Yep – Olive Garden, her favorite restaurant.  We went, we had fun (we ate, drank and were merry.  I think I bought her a rose), and when I was paying, struck up a conversation with the old man sitting next to me.

“I think its great you two are spending Valentine’s Day together’

“aw, thanks <old man>.  Gotta keep those women happy”

The waiter comes with the bill, I grab it, view the cost, and mutter “Women.  Can’t live with em, can’t kill em”

Exit: Old Man.

I digress.

I’ve spent my share of Valentine’s day with my various boyfriends through out my dating career.  We have the Queens Boy, who would constantly buy me tacky jewelry.  Granted, there was plenty about THAT relationship I could make fun of, but his attempt at gift-giving wasn’t one of them.  While it did display a complete lack of understand towards my personal taste, he did try to do something nice.

Or there’s the cop I dated for a while.  We went out to dinner for, I believe, our second Valentine’s day together.  He leaned over the table, squinted at me and said “wait a minute.  Your eyes are green?”

yes, asshole.  They’re the same green eyes that give you dirty looks when you show up to dinner four hours late because your friend needed help changing a tire (cop code for “drinking beer after tour”).

Or there’s my first “long-term boyfriend”.  On our first Valentine’s day together (mind, you, I stayed with him for two more years after this), said to me “get my belt out of the closet before I beat you with it”.  Astonished, (maybe a little intrigued) by the statement, I open the closet to a vase of roses.

And then I paid for dinner.

Finally, we have last year’s boyfriend who got stuck at work (Ladies, don’t date Firemen unless you are okay with knowing the “Fire House Comes First” – for every single one of them.  Every single one, regardless of what he says) but surprised me by having roses sent to my apartment while I was at work.  Sweet, yes.  My style?  Not even a bit.

I truly do not care about Valentine’s day.  And I’m not just saying that, I really, really don’t.  Sure, I’ve had the whole “romantic, get dressed up and go out to dinner” Valentine’s day.  I’ve also had the Valentine’s day where I’ve come home to an apartment that’s flooded because my friend clogged the toilet before going to work and didn’t check to make sure the water had stopped running.

This year could have gone one of two ways.  I could have chosen to go out with the fella that most likely would have swept me off my feet for Valentine’s day.  He undoubtedly would have done something sweet and romantic – or I could have chosen to stick with my charming FF – a cat I’ve been seeing for a little while now, that most likely will forget the day even exists.  Or not forget, and pretend to because he doesn’t want to deal with it.

I choose option two.  When it comes down to it – flowers die, chocolate plunges me into food guilt, and I don’t like sparkly cards in my house, glitter takes forever to get out of my damn carpet.

we all have these…

days where it’s in everyone’s best interest to stay the hell away from me.

Yea, I said it.  I’m in a mood today.  And I don’t want you to try and cheer me up – I’m not sad, I’m crabby.  I didn’t stay up late or go out much this weekend, or really any of that.  Quite the contrary, I did a lot of working out, cooking and cleaning (women’s work) so I was quite relaxed this morning.  Until I got on the train and the woman next to me spilt her coffee all over the place.

Really, lady?  You’re pushing 45, you still need a sippy cup?  And are the vulgarities necessary?

As she is cursing, I turn to her, press my finger to my lips and belt out a good ole “SHHHHHHH!”, then wipe whatever coffee that had touched me on her jacket and tried to settle in for my train nap. 

Which, I would have easily been able to get back into, if it weren’t for the two morons sitting behind me.  They each had an open seat in their row, but chose to yell across the aisle at each other, recapping their weekend of booze, broads and, most likely, venereal diseases.

They caught the death look and a “if ya’ll don’t pipe down, someone’s going to jail this morning”.

The rest of my ride was pleasant, but I guess I forgot that people in NY on Monday mornings don’t know how to walk.  I mowed down about four or five people before I even got out of Penn station.

The first man who asks me if “it’s that time of the month” is going to get brained.

The Golden Rule…

…my parents brought me up on that, and it’s relatively easy.  “do unto others, as they do unto you”

The reason I thought of this was because my ole land lord, y’all remember her, right? Well, she called me earlier today telling me that her home owners insurance wasn’t going to cover the issue with my neighbor, dog and myself.  She retained a lawyer for 5000 dollars, and was hoping I would split the fee with her. Apparently, if I split a lawyer, we will definitely win.  And the fee is reimbursed.

While I’m all for splitting payments I’m pretttttttty sure she is, what I like to call “full of sh-t”.

I don’t recall getting any instruction of pending lawsuits against me. And I’m not exactly a ghost, my name and number aren’t private, neither is my address. Or the rest of my family, we all share a last name, and there’s probably about 78 thousand of us floating around Gotham.

Methinks she’s upset she’s getting sued, and she wants me to chip in by trying to make me believe I am getting sued as well.

Advice: no one will put a judgment against you without you knowing. They’ll find you. Don’t do anything until they do.

She was clearly banking on the fact that even though I have a giant ego, and I’m a narcissist oddly enough, I occasionally have a soft heart, but I’m not going to let some old broad try and scam me!

The situation got grossly out of hand when she started acting like a child and egging the neighbors car, house, property. And her threats to kill him and his dog, I’m sure didn’t help.

In any event, it’s not my problem until it’s actually my problem. And I’m not giving that crazy broad any more money, she was a horrible landlord who cut abundant corners in the upkeep of her house, our apartment (and herself).

Karma can be quite a bitch, I’m so curious how her situation will turn out, and his.

I kinda want to go on Judge Judy though. If THAT is going to happen I am on board, I’d be a goddamn super star on that show.

grandpa’s getting a goodie this year

 

The other day I had to get a tooth fixed, so on my way back I swung by my Grandpa’s to visit for a while.

After commiserating about the usual stuff, we started chatting and he mentioned he loves tomatoes.  That’s about all that stuck from the conversation (other than I noticed he was writing his Christmas cards out – which is great, my Grandpa always sends out the funniest cards.  Unintentionally, but they’re absolutely hilarious).

On my way home I stopped by the store to pick up some tape and I saw these little tomato savers.  They LOOK like tomatoes, but you take your tomato, and put it in the little holder, and they don’t get bruised or busted and they stay fresher, longer.

Now, I wasn’t going to get gifts for anyone outside my immediately family but this is just too good to pass up.  Grand daughter of the year, right here bitches.

The Cheesecake Trials

We’ll delve into my own personal, single life later – and ya’ll won’t be disappointed.  As surprising as it is to believe, I AM single and I DO have a potpourri of personalities from boyfriends/dates/stalkers past.

But this, this story is not me.  I only had the pleasure of hearing it second-hand from a friend of mine, killing time on the train the other day.

**Preface: when I’m on the train, I am as unapproachable as possible.  I’m talking, fake sleeping, fake reading, fake listening to the iPod.  It’s not that I don’t like talking to people, I just don’t want to get stuck in a conversation with someone lasting an hour (or more, if there are delays) when I know we’re going to run out of things to talk about after about 5 minutes**

Moving right along.  My buddy spots me on the train and slides in next to me with: You know women are crazy, right?  As his opener.  Jackpot, I can listen to this.  I bite, and say “Oh, I’m sure you had a hand in whatever happened, but tell me why you think that”

Turns out he met a chic at the grocery store (now, I always hear rumors that the grocery store and the coffee shops are a hot spot to meet people, but I never believe it.  I always think about when I’m at the grocery store – messy, disheveled, coupons flying everywhere, not in control of my shopping cart – but I guess I’m wrong) and they started talking.  He said she seemed nice enough, so they made plans to hang out that Sunday afternoon at a chain restaurant not too far from where we live (think: step up from Applebees, step down from a real restaurant).

They meet, and the first thing he notices is her blackened, dead tooth: “C’mon.  Its 2011.  You’d think she’d get that sh-t fixed by now”.  And her jacked up feet: “First time I met her she had on sneakers, now she’s in flip-flops.  It was awful.  Just awful.”

Ha, now I know here’s where I’m supposed to say “Don’t be so superficial”, but I can’t, because I agree with him.  Keep your jacked up feet in check, ladies, no one likes nasty toes.  The tooth – idk, maybe she just doesn’t have dental.  But when you’re dating, you’re essentially marketing yourself, and if you can’t keep the corns to a minimum…no ones buying, kid.

Apparently it was clear relatively quickly into the date that there wasn’t going to be a second one.  No animosity (fingers crossed he didn’t comment on her toes), they just weren’t feeling it.  They power through dinner and ask for the check.

At the beginning of the afternoon, she had mentioned that she ordered a cake before they got there (hint: this place is most likely known for their desserts) for a friend’s birthday, and asked the waiter to bring it out with the bill.  After watching the bored expressions on their faces and their constant phone checking during the meal, the waiter must have assumed they were a couple, so he brought everything in a combined check. 

Dinner: 50 beans, Cake: 65.

My friend isn’t cheap, but he’s also not a sucker.  He isn’t going to pay for a cake, for some broad, who’s having a party he wasn’t invited to, so he asks the waiter to put dinner on his bill and give this chic a separate check. You can guess what happens here – the waiter mistakenly charged him for the entire bill and asked them to work it out so he didn’t have to get a manager involved.

I’m not always the most reasonable person, but even I would get the money for this dude – even if I had to hit an ATM.  This broad tosses him some attitude and finally says “fine.  Follow me, I have money in my car.”  They get up to leave, head towards the door when…

she falls out in a dead on sprint, cake in hand, cuts off a family at the door and bolts to her car.  You can re-read that if you want, cause I had to ask him to repeat it. 

“Shut UP.  What did you do!” (my buddy is a big dude – all ripped up.  Not the sprinter type though, but I was secretly hoping he ran after her, tripped her, and sat on her back eating the cake with his giant, meat hook hands)

“I just stood there, in shock”.  Weak Sauce.

Here’s the kicker – the next morning she sent him a text “You’re a really nice guy, but I don’t think that we should date.  I didn’t really feel like we had much there”