Below you can see an outfit that I don’t let Elijah wear…because if you’re living under my roof, you’d better be using adverbs correctly.
{Warning: the following video may not be safe for work. The content is completely inappropriate, I use the word ‘fuck’ a lot and it will probably be used to justify why my child needs therapy later on in life.}
I performed at one of my old haunts, a dive bar named The Squire located in downtown Denver, and am relieved to know that I can still be funny while totally sober. This open mic night is known for being dirty, raunchy and hipster-filled.
Adding to the challenge, I had to go on stage following Josh Blue. You know, the winner of Last Comic Standing in 2006?
Ummm….no pressure.
Enjoy. You’ve been warned.
Many thanks to my husband for being a great cameraman. He’s the laughter you hear right off-camera. And my inspiration.
I know, I know…it’s all about the pregnancy posts these days. What can I say?
(Also, Mom and Dad, you don’t really need to read this one.)
It all started a few years back, with hushed whispers and links sent in emails from girlfriends. This was my first glimpse…
Then, as one would expect, I wrote a joke about it for my stand-up routine. Something about how if you had an orgasmic birth with one child and then not with the other, it was going to be easy to pick your favorite child.
Fast forward to the now. Pregnancy and childbirth are no longer just something I joke about up on stage. I’m reading Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, given to me by an old massage-school classmate and proclaimed as ‘the bible’ when it comes to such things.
First I read a section about painless birth. Ummm…that seriously exists? Because not one of my mommyblogging friends has mentioned such a thing. And everything I’ve ever seen both on movies and television portrays childbirth as being very painful. I’m thinking there’s some sort of conspiracy theory going on.
Then, the very next section in the book is about orgasmic birth. Fuck yes. I was late coming to the orgasm game (ha!)(also see: repressed Catholic upbringing) and now that they’re a regular part of my life, I say bring it on when I’m delivering.
So, when asked these days about the baby’s delivery, I’m happy to tell people my birth plan.
Painless with an extra helping of big orgasm, please.
[Disclaimer: If you are a dude who does not like to read about lady bits, then you should not read any further. That is, assuming the title didn't already warn you and you actually made it to this disclaimer. Or that the following picture doesn't scare you off.]
A funny thing happened at the first appointment with my midwife last week…
Let me set the scene. There I was, feet propped up in stirrups, dress pulled up above my waist while my midwife snapped on latex gloves explaining that she needed to look for my cervix. Adam sat nervously in a chair next to the examining table, averting his eyes as the midwife proceeded to poke around inside of me.
“Hmmmm…..” she said, after a few minutes of work, looking up at me. “I seem to be having a hard time finding your cervix. I’m just going to go a little deeper.”
“Ummmm…okay?”
A few more painful and silent moments go by as she palpates, what feels like, all of my internal nether regions. I keep telling myself to breathe, that I’m quite confident I actually have a cervix, and that I’m sure she’ll stumble upon it at any minute.
“This is embarrassing, but I can’t seem to locate your cervix. Have you had other doctors say something about the position of your cervix before?”
“Well, I did have one Ob/Gyn that told me my cervix was shy.”
{Side note, if you’re going to have an adjective associated with your cervix, shy isn’t a bad one. It could be worse. You could have an angry cervix. Or a stubborn cervix. What about a dirty cervix?}
The mid-wife smiled a bit.
“Of course, I don’t really think my cervix is shy. I just think she needs a few drinks before she comes out of her shell and warms up to people.”
The mid-wife looked confused.
“Yes, I have heard that about my cervix before. But seriously, I just had an ultrasound last week where we saw my cervix on a small screen, so I’m pretty sure it’s still there.”
She apologized again, telling us that this kind of thing never happens. Like normally, she’s an award-winning cervix-sniffing superstar.
My husband didn’t say much.
The mid-wife grabbed my chart, looked at my ultrasound and told me I was right. They had not only captured my elusive cervix in the picture of the ultrasound, but they had even measured it.
“You have a long cervix. That’s a good thing.”
(Although also a bad thing, because it meant that she couldn’t find it. You would think something long would be easier to find, but then again, I’m no scientist.)
So I guess this story does have a happy ending.
I do still have a cervix and it’s long. Both of these things are going to be pretty crucial in the delivery of my child, I’m thinking.
But, then, after my appointment, I couldn’t stop wondering…what if my cervix had been missing? Where might it have run off to? So I present to you, the top five places you could probably find my cervix:
{Photo notes: I stole all of these images off the internet but at least I’m honest about it. Additionally, in case you’re wondering, none of the cervices pictured above are mine. And finally, how awesome is it that the first picture of the cervix at the top of this post was created by an organization with the same name as my husband?}
I went into a little grocery in my neighborhood to pick up some baking cups. Or muffin liners. Or whatever you want to call those little paper things that sit in your muffin tray and wrap securely around your baked goods. Cupcake condoms?
It took some hunting but eventually I found what I needed.
Ignore the crushed nuts.
Take a look at the name of the company that makes these things.
Seriously?
I married into a Jewish family and am a recovering Catholic. Guilt is something I’m quite familiar with and I know it when I see it. Is this what companies are forced to do now that there is such a push for “going green”?
(What’s next? Companies named “If you love your children” or “If you want to live to see 80″?)
To address the packaging and its passive-aggressive green guilt trip, I do care.
Also?
This was the ONLY baking cup that the store had in stock.
Even if I didn’t care, I didn’t have any other choice. The lack of supply in the store forced me to purchase these. Which leads me to think that perhaps this company should be called…
If you can’t find anything else.
(Not as catchy, I know. But guilt-free AND true.)
Inspired by the intriguing TLC show and almost as ridiculous…
I thought the kitchen looked a little greener than usual.
***
And I couldn't believe the sweet outdoor spot we scored for brunch.
***
Not to mention that breeze as I slept...and the fact that our bed felt harder than it normally does.
***
It's not weird to repackage your food. And only eat things easily rehydrated.
***
Wait...so that's why my back was hurting?
***
Here I thought our plumbing was acting weird. Why else would we be pumping our own water?
***
It seemed like we had a little less privacy than usual.
I’m a little embarrassed. But if telling my story helps other women to know when it’s happening to them, then I’m glad to share.
(Also, TLC, if you’re reading, let’s talk reality backpacking shows. Think a little less Survivorman and a little more Animal House. Have your people get in touch with mine.)
Sometimes my husband gets a little carried away with making up abbreviations for things. He still insists that he coined FoCo for Fort Collins years before others started saying it.
I’m not sure why he likes it so much, but if he can make a word shorter, he will.
The other night, our dinner got completely out of hand. It all started when he asked what else we should eat with his green chili stew.
Digging around in the refrigerator, he proclaimed, “I’ll finish off these torts.”
(Short for tortillas.)
Next, he suggested we “make some burritz”.
(Short for burritos.)
Not a picture of my husband's pork green chili. But it is a picture of his famous pork pockets. Or pork vaginas. Whatever you want to call them.
I offer to help prepare dinner, as I always do. He tells me that there’s not much to do and that he’s “just going to cut the cilant.”
(Short for cilantro.)
He’s definitely stepping up his game with this one. Way to save yourself a syllable’s worth of work dude. I’m laughing to myself at this point and just hoping that he can throw one more out. Four in a row…was it possible?
We eat a delicious dinner and then, when we’re full and happy, I get up to clear the table. He motions for my plate and offers to finish what I haven’t.
“Let me help with that resid.”
Excuse me?
(Short for residual.)
As in the rest of the burrito on my plate.
Good one darling. Way to knock it out of the par.
Seen on I25 North, outside of Cheyenne
