Thursday, November 10, 2016

A Woman's Worth

Society lied to me about the bloodbath involved in pulling a person out of another person.  First of all they use frothy emotional phrases like “giving birth,” which sounds more like you’re merely handing something over, as opposed to being sawed open and having an alien removed.  But I persevered and now I’m responsible for keeping a person alive.  

There was no downtime between horrific surgery and parenting.  A weekend would have been nice.  Regardless, I have a child now and she is doing just fine.  I, however, continue to suffer physical symptoms I didn’t even know existed, proving once again that pregnancy is a hideous process and not the pink-bonnet-party-bus it’s often described as. Those symptoms don’t end after delivery/womb-opening. Ladies, run for your life.

After three days of changing my own diaper, I was ready to leave the hospital.  I was tired of being yelled at by nurses and was eager to return home where I could relax in the comfort of being yelled at by my family members instead.  It’s safe to say that once Perfect Daughter was ripped from my loins, she only needed me for one thing—breastfeeding.  I’m fairly certain this is the only reason Husband hasn’t left me yet.  I’m his daughter’s major food supply, so he’s incentivized to keep me around. 

I had intended to breastfeed merely because I knew it was free (turns out formula is expensive AF), and I heard it led to dramatic weight-loss.  Beyond that, I was indifferent.  But when I was in the hospital, the nurses kept commending me on my breastfeeding abilities and I started to feel pretty good about myself.  I am historically bad at everything and after enduring the horrific procedure known as creating life, I felt elated by the revelation that I was a BREASTFEEDING CHAMPION!!!  I finally started to relax, knowing that I was literally better than everyone.  And then I left the hospital.  And all hell broke loose.

I don’t have a good track record where wellness is concerned.  Conversely, every time I turn around—oh wait, I can’t turn around because my entire spine is fused together.  The point is it was foolish to believe I was excelling at something.  I should have known that a moment of high self-esteem would end in some sort of debilitating illness.  

It all started with my vagina.  Over the course of my life, it’s safe to say that most of my problems started there.  When I went to see the doctor for my 8 week postpartum visit, I was convinced that I had chlamydia.  I didn’t have an explanation as to how I would have contracted such a thing, but if there’s one thing I know about STDs, it’s that they creep up on you when you least expect it. 

My doctor seemed uninterested as I tried to convince her that I was potentially dying.  She instructed me to take off my pants and get in the stirrups.  There was a time in my life that this would have sounded like a great time, but it means something different when it’s coming from your gynecologist and not a strange man with a mustache that you just met at a bar.  ANYWAY, I climbed in and awaited the bad news.  But instead of gasping, my doctor started laughing.  She got me naked, peered into my vagina, and lost her shit laughing at my cootch.  I was distraught.

Me: Um…what’s so funny?

Dr.: Alison, I don’t know how you do it.

Me: I mean…I’m not trying to do anything.  As a matter of fact, I specifically had a C-section in order to avoid future experiences where people are laughing at my vagina.

Dr.: You have Atrophic Vaginitis.

Me: What is that and why is it funny?  Also, I don’t know a ton about doctoring but it feels like you should have attended at least one course entitled, “whatever happens, don’t laugh at a person’s vagina.”

Dr.: Basically all the estrogen in your body is moving to your breasts in order to create milk…

Me: Gross

Dr.: As a result, there is no estrogen left to keep your vagina moist and supple…

Me: I’m literally throwing up in my mouth right now.

Dr.: So basically the pain you’re feeling that you’ve decided is chlamydia, is actually a multitude of cuts all over the walls of your now paper-thin vagina.


Dr.: This is typically found in postmenopausal women.

Me: Obviously.

Dr.: I’m going to give you a cream that needs to be administered via syringe into your vagina.

Me: This can’t be happening.

Dr.: It is.  Good luck.

Me: Again, didn’t you have to take some sort of bedside-manner class?

This entire experience forced me to believe in God because only some sort of supreme being could have worked so masterfully in my life.  Over the course of my existence, I have gone to great lengths to avoid syringes and have instead sought out chemicals that could be ingested via nostril.  Yet here I am, shooting estrogen cream into my wilted flower like a 70-year-old widow who’s headed to a church picnic.  In addition, I actively had a baby ripped out of me in order to preserve my vagina but somehow my vagina has atrophied… ATROPHIED!!!  DOES ANYONE THINK THAT’S WEIRD?!  

It’s obvious that I’m being punished.  God forbid I have one thing…just one thing that I’m good at.  I experienced high self-esteem for like five minutes when I thought I was good at breastfeeding.  But it’s hard to feel good about yourself with the knowledge that each time you feed your child is another moment you won’t be having sex with your husband BECAUSE YOUR ENTIRE VAGINA DOESN’T WORK ANYMORE AND YOU’RE TOO BUSY SHOOTING CREAM UP YOUR PIE HOLE TO FOCUS ON SEX ANYWAY.

I had to regroup.  I had intended to breastfeed Perfect Daughter for a year and my doctor informed me that the old baby maker would doubtfully repair itself before then.  I dusted myself off and started to reassess the situation.  Sure my coin slot had shut down and my perfect apricot had been replaced with sandpaper and hay.  But this was the cross I had to bear.  I was doing my best to give myself a pep talk but it was slightly difficult due to the fact that my arms and legs were itching like crazy.  I was confused.  Surely lack of estrogen didn’t make your entire body itch…did it?  I decided to ignore these symptoms and try to focus on caring for the child I had created.  That night, I woke up and was convinced I had poison oak.  Again, it’s probably good that I’m not a doctor because I’m not great with initial diagnoses.  

I wasn’t about to visit my quack doctor again so I decided to roll into Walgreens.  At the very least, I was confident they wouldn’t ask to see and then laugh at my vagina, and that felt like a win.

Me: Hi.  I think I have Poison Oak.

Walgreens Person: Have you been near the wilderness?

Me: I mean…I live in Glendale and we have squirrels there.  Does that count?

WP: No.

Me: Listen, you’re being mean.  I just had a baby and am clearly dying of some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.

WP: Oh, so it’s possible that this is postpartum.  Are you stressed at all?


WP: You have postpartum hives.

Me: No, thank you.

WP: Just wipe Benadryl cream all over your arms and legs until it feels better.

Me: Well I’d love to but I’m a little busy shooting it up my vagina right now.

WP: Excuse me?


Honestly, I don’t have anything else to say.  After two months of parenting I had gone from wearing a diaper to blasting my vag with lotion, covering my body with oatmeal to help the hive itching, lathering the Frankenstein scar above my vagina with some exorbitantly expensive plastic surgery cream which…let’s be honest, there’s really no need to keep my vagina looking good WHEN IT HAS LITERALLY ATROPHIED AND I WILL NEVER HAVE SEX AGAIN!

For a brief moment, when I was doing a good job at breastfeeding, I thought it was possible that my body was actually made for mothering.  The systematic breakdown of my physical body since then indicates that perhaps I should have adopted or at the very least should be switching to formula.  But I have dreams.  And I have goals.  And if there’s one thing I know about breastfeeding, it’s that it burns a lot of calories.  And Goddamnit I want to wear pants someday. 

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

The Birth

Let’s just quickly discuss the bloodbath that was my child’s birth.  Holy.  Shit.  I knew I was going to have to have a C-section because of my spinal fusion and had convinced myself that this was really the way to go.  In retrospect, I may have been mistaken. 

It all started off mundane AF.  Since the baby retrieval was planned, there was no breaking of water or emergency rides to the hospital.  I packed a bag the night before, drove to Cedars Sinai at five in the morning, and ultimately it was a lot like checking into a hotel.  However, after the initial paperwork, things got weird.  The first thing I found to be peculiar is that they put me in a hospital gown (expected), gave me some weirdo hospital wet wipes and asked me to rub them all over my body (confusing, but ok) and then a stranger shaved my vagina (I’M SORRY . . . WHAT?!).  I thought the beauty of the C-section is that your vagina is not involved.  I would have gotten myself waxed if I knew we were going to be so focused on pubic hair.  More upsettingly, this was just another day in the life for the nursing staff, so Joy the nurse was pretty blasé when she nonchalantly said, ok, I’ll be back in a minute to shave your pubes.”  I MEAN, BUY ME DINNER FIRST, JOY!  Husband was front and center for each additional demoralizing procedure.  The shaving of the vag was just the entry point (nailed it) for a day of horrific firsts.  It’s shocking that anyone in the world has more than one child after witnessing the birthing process.   

Since these sickos deliver babies on the reg, no one hesitated to wander into my room as Joy was coiffing my private regions.  It was the closest I’ve ever come to being in a barbershop quartet.  It seemed like all the doctors and nurses on staff that day had decided that this was prime time to stop by and ask questions.

Dr.: Hey Alison, how are you feeling today?

Alison: Um . . . a stranger is shaving my crotch literally right now and you are trying to make small talk.  I wish I was dead.

That was probably the most jarring fact of the day.  All the nurses and doctors were un-phased by things that I found to be truly appalling.  I think I would have felt better if just one person stopped by and said something like, hey Alison, removing a child from a woman is truly a barbaric process.  Feel free to experience shame and horror as the rest of us casually move through what is essentially our day job.  We may seem uninterested and unaffected, but you’re right to feel that this entire event is a God damn shit show.”  Instead, I kept enduring frightening procedures while everyone else caught up on their weekend plans.  After the shaving session, I was moved into what was essentially a meat locker, and while I received a spinal tap, the rest of the staff took the opportunity to catch up.

Random Nurse #1: Hey Claire, did you ever get that lasagna recipe I sent you?

Random Nurse #2: I did actually!  We made it for John’s birthday.

Anesthesiologist: Ok Alison, you’re going to feel a little pinch.  Are you ready?

Me (while shaking uncontrollably): Are those women talking about lasagna?

Anesthesiologist: I’m sure they’re not.  Everyone here is very concerned about your well-being.

RN #1: Did I tell you that Janie and Bobby are getting married?

RN #2: Wow!  So he finally popped the question?!  And right before her graduation!  What did Barb have to say about that?  I’m sure she wasn’t thrilled.

Anesthesiologist: Mmmkk Alison, you’re going to start feeling a little numb. 


Anesthesiologist: Alison, it’s normal to feel overwhelmed by the anesthesia.  Are you having trouble breathing?  It’s important that you stay relaxed.


Anesthesiologist: Alison, calm down.  Do you want me to go get your husband?


My memories of the rest of the actual surgery (NO BIG DEAL, I HAD SURGERY) are pretty foggy.  Husband says my arms were strapped down, probably so I couldn’t reach for a cig while I was getting my morphine drip.  He says I just stared at the ceiling the entire time and looked catatonic.  All I remember is this:

Dr.: Ok Alison, you’re going to feel a lot of pushing . . . lot of pushing.  Ok.  Almost there.  We got it.  OH MY GOD, IT’S A GINGER!

Literally.  I had a Ginger Baby.  I’m not even sure how it’s possible.  I remember hearing this proclamation and thinking, wait . . . how did they pull the wrong baby out of me?”  But there she was.  Next thing ya know, they bring me the Ginger Baby and don’t ya know, she looks exactly like Husband.  I mean this kid looks NOTHING like me.  I’m terrified every time we leave the house as I’m certain someone is going to assume that I stole her and I’m bound to have DCFS called on my ass.

Next, there was a gap of what felt like 100 years wherein everyone ooohed and aaahed over this supposed Ginger Baby that I had yet to see.  I would have gotten up and checked out the situation myself BUT I COULDN’T BECAUSE I WAS STRAPPED TO A GURNEY AND HAD NO FEELING IN MY LEGS!!!  Finally, a nurse came over and said, ok Alison, is it ok if I put your baby on you?”  I remember thinking, “holy shit.  This bitch already thinks I have post-partum and am going to kill my baby.”  Even in a drugged state, I was offended and replied as such: bitch I carried that Ginger for nine God damn months, I had shingles in the process and have tried my best to be patient while you people ripped her out of me so no pressure or anything BUT LET ME SEE THE GINGER BABY, YOU WENCH!” 

For the next hour, I was in recovery with the Ginger Baby and we tried to get to know each other.  It seems fitting that she was introduced to me while I was high on drugs.  She got a good long look at what I’ll be like if she acts up and forces me to relapse—inattentive, distracted, and negligent.

Finally, they took me back to the hospital room I would be sharing with Husband for the next three days.   I was in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day and only remember a few horrific details.  For starters, a stranger (I pray to God she was a nurse) came by eventually and told me it was time to use my legs and go to the bathroom.  It was at this point that I realized I was wearing a diaper and bleeding profusely.  Apparently that’s part of the C-section.  They pump you full of drugs and then put a diaper on you without your consent.  They also inserted a catheter while I wasn’t looking but then removed it while I was high as a kite because I don’t remember any of that.  What I do remember is the stranger leading me to the bathroom, removing my diaper, literally spraying a water bottle at my vag and then telling me to clean myself up and get back in bed.  It felt a lot like the time I had visited a Korean Spa.  In the meantime, I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything.  Everyone said I wouldn’t be hungry since I was on so many pain meds BUT CLEARLY THEY DON’T KNOW ME CAUSE I WAS STARVING TO DEATH!  Eventually I was allowed ice chips, but every time I tried to stomach them, I threw up everywhere. 

My parents and Husband were with me the entire time, but they were distracted by the Ginger Baby so when I had to throw up they intervened by saying, “not on the Perfect Ginger Baby!” at which point they would grab her from my arms and throw a garbage can my way.  When I said I needed my diaper changed and attempted to get up they’d help by kindly suggesting, “don’t get up while you’re holding Perfect Baby!  What’s the matter with you?!”  I tried to point out that I was bleeding to death, battling a copious amount of pain killers and projectile vomiting.  They seemed wholly unimpressed and instead turned their attention to Perfect Baby, who had apparently made a sound, resulting in a bevy of picture taking, applauding, and calling other family members who weren’t present to report the news of Perfect Baby’s activities.

The point is, my family doesn’t care about me anymore.  The Ginger Baby has taken over and I had to weather the storm of surgery quietly while simultaneously attempting to keep the offspring alive.  The nurses were just as uninterested with my ailments as my family was.  They would wake me up every two hours and yell at me.

Angry Nurse: Why haven’t you fed your baby?!

Me: OMG, what time is it?

Angry Nurse: It’s 3 a.m.

Me: Why are you yelling at me?

Angry Nurse: You need to feed your baby.

Me: I literally just did.

Angry Nurse: Why didn’t you write it down?


This pattern has continued.  Perfect Baby continues to live an incredible life while I focus on the Frankenstein scar above my vagina and wonder if Husband will ever have sex with me again.  Ultimately, child birth is disgusting.  My body is in shambles, every part of me hurts, and I’ve been reduced to a walking milk jug.  I can’t wait for the Ginger Baby to be able to understand words so I can tell her how good she’s got it.  I'll probably start by framing the picture attached and putting it in her room so that she can see how I suffered.  Holy shit, I have a kid.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Winter Is Coming.

This was a huge mistake. I’m 900 weeks pregnant and scheduled to go into the hospital tomorrow to have this thing ripped out of me. I gotta tell ya, I am not prepared. The only silver lining I currently see is that I’ll be able to smoke soon.

For starters, I already can’t sleep. This is probably due to the fact that I am literally humongous and every sleeping position seems to either crush or suffocate the baby, thereby relegating me to nuanced choreography that requires a plethora of pillows, blankets, and a spark of creativity. Needless to say, none of this has worked. I’ve been up since 3 a.m.

The good news is, I’ve been able to get a lot of support from Husband. He does this great thing during the day where he pities me and insists that I wake him up in the middle of the night if he’s snoring and I can’t sleep. Solidarity. One night I tried this, only to realize that he’s just as good at ignoring me in his dreams as he is during normal business hours. Is it wrong that I’m looking forward to a few relaxing days in the hospital where I will be taken care of by nurses who don’t snore? They’ve offered to bring a bed in for Husband and I’m still trying to formulate a plan to expel him from the hospital. I’m sure everything will be easier once the baby gets here. OH SHIT, I’M HAVING A BABY!!!

Due to the fact that my entire spine is fusing together, I am scheduled to have a C-Section on August 11th at 7:15 a.m. As previously mentioned, I’ve opted to roll through this pregnancy blind and did literally no research in order to prepare for this scenario. It was only recently that I learned I’d be having what some people like to call major surgery.” I found this to be alarming but it was too late. It turns out, there’s really no good way to get a baby out of you. Either a baby rips your vagina to shreds or a team of medical professionals cuts you open, throws your organs on a coffee table, and hands your daughter to your husband and tells them both what a great job they did.

The good news is, I lost a pound! Granted, this is after having gained fifty, but it feels like a triumph and I think I should be congratulated. I have my unborn baby to thank for this. Towards the end of one’s pregnancy, your baby completely overtakes your body, forcing all organs to new locations and turning what was formerly known to be saliva into a burning acid that makes it nearly impossible to eat any food. It’s great! The only thing I eat now is Tums. I’d snort them if I could, but I have reason to believe it’s not advantageous.

Have I mentioned that my maternity clothes don’t fit? At this point, I’m just draping sheets around myself and calling them clothes. I use bandages for bras and disposable pedicure sandals are the only thing that fit my swollen brick feet. Seriously, I look great. I knew I wasn’t alone in this so I jumped online in an attempt to find some comradeship with other pregnant women who were wallowing in self-pity. Here’s what I found:

Martha: “I loved being pregnant. It was like a dream come true for me. Got off the pill one month and pregnant the next, unbelieveable. I had long awaited seing myself with a big belly. At 33yrs I loved it. I had not one bit of morning sickness, not one ache, not one pain.”

Ok, so obviously I hadn’t started in the right place. My first attempt at pregnant solidarity was to Google, Did you like being pregnant?” as which point I was directed to whore Martha who clearly hates spell check but LOVES being pregnant. I can only imagine that Martha spends her Sundays at Church and has never snorted a Tums. Regardless, I would not be deterred and thought perhaps a different approach was necessary. I finally picked up one of the Parent magazines that my mother-in-law had been shipping to me weekly (she doesn’t know about the Internet yet). I turned right to an article titled, 20 Reasons Why I Loved Being Pregnant.” I was willing to believe that maybe I had missed something and began skimming the list for recognition — no such luck. Here are a few of their gems:

10. World-class service. One night at a trendy Italian restaurant with a 45-minute wait, the maitre d' insisted, "We don't make the mama wait! Take this table!”

I went to Canter’s one day for brunch and they told me I was too big to fit in a booth.

16. Baby hiccups! Once I figured out what those weird rhythmic pulses in my belly were, they gave me a good giggle.

Is that the thing where it feels like you’re getting punched in the cunt?

18. Watching my husband look at cribs and diaper pails with the intensity he used to save for digital cameras and HDTV.

Replace digital cameras and HDTV” with syringes and tin foil,” remember that your child is likely going to have severe substance-abuse issues, start fantasizing a night out at the bar, realize the error of looking at cribs and diaper pails with Husband, immediately call Sober Coach.

The coup de grace came when I accidentally stumbled upon this on Pinterest:

Mine should read: I’m mildly tolerating the parasite that’s trying to kill me.

No, but here’s the deal, I’m clearly already a bad mom. My strategy is to never teach my child how to read or show her where the Internet is (worked on my mother-in-law). That’s got to be one of the signs of good parenting, right?!

If all goes according to plan, I will meet this broad tomorrow. God only knows what I’m about to encounter. Luckily, I’m her major food source so if she starts to act lippy, I can always starve her so that she knows who’s in charge.

Everyone says that after the kid is actually here, your heart will crack open and you will know a love you’ve never experienced before. I’m guessing those people have never tried sausage. Regardless, I’m willing to believe that my whole life is about to change. OMG, I’m gonna have a baby!

Monday, June 27, 2016

Final Stretch

This is outrageous.  I’ve been pregnant for 400 years and things aren’t going well.  As soon as I was struck pregnant, I suffered immediate outlandish symptoms that ranged from hellacious nausea to something called mouth ulcers, which I’m pretty sure only afflicts like .5% of pregnant women.  I wish I could say that all the indignities I’ve been enduring were well worth the heartache, but I don’t know much about the kid inside me other than the fact that she likes to kick me in the cunt about twenty times a day which doesn’t lend itself to a lot of heartwarming feelings.  Mostly I feel like she’s either trying to kill me or escape.  The point is my unborn child literally hates me.

I’ve shared this theory with several mothers who all blankly stare at me and then stop returning my phone calls, but I feel that it’s plausible.  Basically my child spends every waking moment sucking all imaginable nutrients from my system so that she can get big and strong making her solely responsible for all of my ailments.  I mean would it be so hard for her to just leave me a few morsels of sustenance?  It seems she is punishing me for having to live in a uterus that’s filled with cigarette smoke and bong resin.  OH PUHLEASE, IT CAN’T BE THAT BAD IN THERE.  LEAVE ME SOME VITAMIN C, YOU WITCH!  Now I know what you’re thinking: Alison, fetuses aren’t malicious.  You’re confusing your embryo with the girls from high school.”  Am I though?  Let me just tell you what this kid has put me through. 

Most recently, I felt that my vagina was falling apart.  Something was very wrong down there and I would have been able to diagnose myself sooner had I been able to actually see the goddamn thing.  Instead I had to roll it into my doctor’s office.  Do you have any idea how demoralizing it is to have to make an appointment to see your vagina?  I mean…vagina and I used to be friends.  We were close.  We hung out.  We spent time together.  Now she’s a literal stranger and I have handed her off to a medical professional because there’s clearly nothing else I can do for her at this point.  Well, sure as shit, doctor said I had broken her. 

Doctor: Oh!  I see what the problem is.  Nothing to worry about.  You just have a yeast infection.

Me: What?!  That sounds fucking disgusting.  Stop pretending that this isn’t a big deal.

Doctor:  Oh, it’s really common in pregnant women. 

Me: Does it happen because our children are hogging all of our nutrients?

Doctor: What?

Me: I just think my daughter is stealing all my nutrients and I want her to stop.

Doctor: I mean…she needs them to live.


Doctor: You’ll just be a little more tired and you may have a yeast infection from time to time.

Me: Please stop saying that.  It is so gross.

Doctor: Mmmkkk.  Get yourself some Monistat 7.  You’ll be fine.  And be grateful you’re having a healthy baby.

In case you haven’t deduced what’s happening, my doctor has colluded with my offspring in an attempt to kill me.  It’s pretty obvious. 

Let’s just talk about Monistat 7 for a minute.  It is the grossest thing I have ever encountered.  From what I had been able to glean from commercials, I had determined that Monistat 7 was some sort of flowery device that you insert into your vagina which then leads to your husband loving you more?  I just remember seeing pictures of women using this product and then going for long strolls on beaches with men.  Turns out I was dead wrong.  Listen to this shit.  Basically you fill what looks like a plastic syringe full of lotion, you then insert that syringe into your vagina at which point you shoot all of the lotion into your vag cavity.  OMG, I just threw up everywhere.  You then attempt to move on with your daily life but it’s difficult because VAG LOTION IS LITERALLY LEAKING OUT OF YOU AND YOU ARE PREGNANT AND YOU STILL HAVE TO GO TO YOUR JOB EVERY DAY AND YOU ARE ENCOUNTERING MEN AND IT IS LITERALLY THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED AND YOUR UNBORN CHILD IS LAUGHING AT YOU AND SHE IS STILL STEALING ALL YOUR NUTRIENTS!  Seriously, how do people deal with this?  This lasted for seven horrific days.  I cannot believe Husband hasn’t left me yet.  I am fatter than ever and spend all my free time shooting lotion up my twat. 

Needless to say, I was under a lot of stress.  We had just returned from New Orleans where I had managed to rip the flesh of my inner thighs apart by attempting to walk and as soon as we returned I was diagnosed with yeasty vagina.  I was bereft.  I was uncomfortable and tired and sure the world was out to get me.  And obviously by “world” I mean “demonic offspring.” 

I want it to be noted that I legitimately try to not get diseases.  My life mantra is “don’t get diseases.”  My spirit animal is anything that doesn’t have a disease.  I take vitamins, I exercise, I drink water, I smoke.  I basically do everything a healthy person should be doing.  Yet last week, I was walking around naked  Husband’s least favorite activity  when he noticed something was askew.

Husband: What happened to your back?  

Me: Oh God, is this an ass joke?

Husband: No, it looks like you have a rash.

Me: Stop it.

Husband: Come here.  I’m trying to get a picture.

The fact that Husband was trying to get a picture was upsetting for a myriad of reasons: (1) I was naked but he was only trying to capture the image of my rash and was unmoved by my actual naked body; (2) this picture resulted in me literally sexting my doctor and trying to get a diagnosis via text; (3) this strategy worked and the outcome was shingles.  SHINGLES!  I WAS SIX MONTHS PREGNANT AND HAD SOMEHOW GOTTEN FUCKING SHINGLES!!!

I just literally don’t even know what to say.  Shingles is some sort of horrible viral rash that afflicts the elderly and me.  I’m just not even sure where to begin.  I tried to call my doctor for more information and just like every other medical professional I have ever encountered, she was completely useless.

Me: Hi Dr, just wanted to follow-up on our sexts.

Doctor: Please don’t ever do that again.

Me: I get it.  No one likes seeing my naked body.

Doctor: You have shingles.

Me: Right, I heard.  The thing is, what is that?

Doctor: It’s a viral infection.

Me: But why do I have it?

Doctor: It’s usually brought on by a weakened immune system or stress.  Do you feel that you’ve been stressed at all?


Doctor: I think you may be overreacting.  Lots of people get shingles.


Doctor: My grandma had it.


Obviously, I’m never talking to my doctor again.  This fucking baby is going to have to fall out on its own because clearly my doctor takes me for a motherfucking chump and I don’t want to have anything to do with her.  Ultimately, I had to be on an antiviral medication for 10 days that resulted in horrific stomach pains proving my point that pregnancy is a lot like food poisoning.  Regardless, it’s obvious that my unborn child hates me and gave me shingles.  I can’t wait to meet her.  Once she finds out I’m literally her only food supply, perhaps she’ll treat me with some motherfucking respect.  I’m gonna be a great mom.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Research Is For Dummies

I continue to make horrible decisions.  Exhibit 1: I’m pregnant.  Probably wasn’t the strongest move on my part seeing as I have no idea what’s entailed in baby rearing nor do I have any money.  Regardless, it has happened and it’s too late to back out now…unless I go to Arkansas.  It is shocking how little I know about being pregnant.  I’ve managed to do literally zero research, evidenced by the fact that I didn’t even know how to correctly read a pregnancy test.  I’m not sure if this is the best approach but it’s certainly exciting.  Each day I am faced with new and confusing information and I’m far too lazy to research anything so I continue to go with my gut.  There is another pregnant woman at work and she seems to know an awful lot about what we’re supposed to be doing.  She never hesitates to school me on what she’s learned from her baby books.

Woman Who Cares About Her Child: Um…Alison.  Are you eating lunch meat?

Me: Damn right I am.

Woman: You’re not supposed to eat lunch meat while you’re pregnant.

Me: I doubt that.  I think you’re confusing lunch meat with smoking.  Smoking is questionable.  Lunch meat is fine.

Woman: I promise you, lunch meat is not ok.

Me: Listen lady, I grew up in the Midwest where salami is considered to be one of the four major food groups.  I highly doubt my fetus will be able to survive without it.

Woman: OMG.

Me: What?!

Woman: Are you drinking Diet Coke?

Me: Oh boy…

Woman: Aside from the fact that you’re not supposed to have caffeine, aspartame has been linked to several different types of birth defects.

Me: If anything you should be congratulating me on not doing actual coke which, honestly, sounds delicious.  I can’t wait to have this baby so that I can drink again.

Woman: Wait…aren’t you an alcoholic?


Clearly, I stopped talking to the other woman at work.  I think it goes without saying that in addition to her perfect pregnancy during which she doesn’t, among other things, use cough drops, sleep on her stomach, take Advil, or eat soft cheeses, Woman at Work is nine months pregnant and I’m pretty sure she’s still not wearing maternity clothes.  Basically she’s a witch and it feels unfair that she should be employed and pregnant at the same time as me.  Everyone at work is continually surprised that Woman Who Cares About Her Child is more pregnant than I am.  Obviously this is because Woman at Work continues to be petite and agreeable whereas I am unreasonably large and overtly angry.  I can’t wait for that bitch to go on maternity leave so that I never have to see her again.  Ugh…

As usual, I find my ignorance to be refreshing and endearing.  Sadly, literally nobody else feels this way.  This is particularly true of Husband who I’m sure regrets impregnating/marrying me.

Me: Um...I think my belly button is broken.

Husband: It’s just getting ready to pop.

Me: LOL.  You’re stupid.

Husband: What?  No.  Literally, at some point it will pop out.

Me: Gross.  Why?

Husband.   Well, your expanding uterus puts pressure on the rest of your abdomen which pushes your belly button outward. 

Me: How do you even know these things?

Husband: Well I realized we were having a baby and decided to do like a thirty second Google search on what that would entail.

Me: You’re not better than me.

Husband: It feels like I am cause you continue to know literally nothing.

Me: I know tons of stuff!

Husband: How many weeks pregnant are you?

Me: *blank stare*

Husband: Don’t you want to know anything about what’s happening to you?

Me: Not really.

Husband: Why?

Me: It just feels like a lot of work.

Husband: Are you at all concerned about our child’s future?

Me: Absolutely.  But it feels like you’ve got this under control.

Husband: I hate you.

Me: Well you can’t leave me because I’m having your child.

Husband: Ugh…

I guess my point is that my marriage is doing great.  In line with my horrible decision making, I recently convinced Husband that we should go to New Orleans for Jazz Fest.  He was slightly hesitant and pointed out that I would be six months pregnant.  I could not understand how that was relevant information.  I MEAN…AM I SUPPOSED TO STOP LIVING MY LIFE SOLELY BECAUSE I’M HOSTING A PARASITE?  I AM NOT GOING TO BE ONE OF THOSE MOMS WHO HOLES UP AND DIES JUST BECAUSE SHE’S HAVING A BABY.  I REFUSE TO LET MY FACEBOOK PAGE BECOME LITTERED WITH PICTURES OF NEWBORNS INSTEAD OF DICK JOKES.  I AM GOING TO BE FUN MOM!  A COOL MOM!  I AM NOT GOING TO CHANGE!  I AM NOT GOING TO LET MOTHERHOOD HOLD ME BACK FROM EXPERIENCING LIFE!  WE ARE GOING TO NEW ORLEANS!  As with most of our “conversations,” Husband had left the room by the time I was done spouting my anthem.  I think the key to marriage is for one person to be literally insane and the other person to be too tired to leave.  #romance

I had a lot of big plans for our trip to New Orleans.  I wanted to eat as much food as humanly possible while still keeping my sleek physique.  My approach was to walk…a lot.  I had already mentally prepared Husband for this feat and knew that it would be no problem at all.  Our Airbnb was three miles away from the Jazz Fest shuttle and my plan was to walk there every day.  After day one, I realized the error of my ways.  I had failed to account for several external issues that made the rest of my trip beyond challenging. 

#1 I was 40 lbs. heavier that I had been when I booked the trip.

#2 New Orleans is humid AF.

#3 I was beginning to experience feet swelling due to pregnancy.

#4 If you’re super fat and trying to walk, you will experience something called "chub rub" which results in a severe chaffing of the upper, inner thighs.

#5 If you’re pregnant, you’re going to need water which I had failed to take into consideration.

Basically I fucked up.  By the time we got to the shuttle after our three mile walk, I was covered in dirt, my thighs were bleeding, my feet were busting out of my sandals and Husband was ready for divorce.  Things went downhill from there.  I spent the next three days trying to get my feet back down to normal size which literally never happened.  I still can’t fit back into my shoes.  And obviously I wasn’t going to let some bloody thighs keep me from having a good time so I also spent the following three days drowning my sorrows in fried oysters, po boys, jambalaya and beignets.  At the end of all that, I had to get on a plane which isn’t particularly great for pregnant women (why didn’t anyone tell me?!).  Below is a picture of my foot the day we got back from NOLA.  Needless to say, I am no longer in charge of our vacations and Husband is making me learn one new fact a day about being pregnant.  Did you know this lasts for 40 weeks?  I’m furious.  I continue to think I would be better off not knowing.  The more I learn the more terrified I become.  Being pregnant is a lot like doing drugs.  The less you know, the more likely you are to enjoy yourself.  Please stop sending me books.      

Monday, April 18, 2016

Preggo Psycho

The American Medical Association needs to start defining pregnancy as a mental disorder.  I had an epic pregnancy breakdown last week and I am just starting to recover.  Obviously, I blame you for this meltdown.  And when I say you, I mean the same women who offered up a barrage of suggestions when I got married.  Those bitches are back and they have a lot to say about pregnancy.  I was able to ward these shrews off for a while but I’ve just recently crossed the bridge from fat to pregnant and now literal strangers are on my jock.  I get nonstop unsolicited advice from co-workers and transients at the grocery store.  It’s literally terrible and it finally resulted in a full-blown panic attack.  I tried to keep it together for a while but eventually it was more than I could take.  Without access to birth control, alcohol or cigarettes, I have lost the ability to think rationally.
The suggestions started slow, and for a period of time I was able to respond reasonably and then move on with my day.  In the beginning the comments I received from previously pregnant women were seemingly innocuous, but of course I found them to be wildly insulting.  And, once again, I was faced with society’s desire to register for gifts — my worst nightmare.

Rich Coworker: Make sure you register for a gate.

Me: Excuse me?

RC: You don’t want your child falling down the stairs.

Me: Right, well I live in a tiny apartment with no staircases so I don’t see this posing as a problem.

RC: Oh.  That’s nice.  What about a rocking chair?

Me: Again, tiny apartment.

RC: Surely you have room for one more chair.

Me: Lady, I understand how chairs and space work and I have to imagine that my unborn child will be able to thrive without a chair created specifically for rocking.  You do realize it’s an action we can all access at any time, right?  A chair solely designed for this function isn’t the only way to rock something.

RC: Well I’m sure you’ll have a swing for her.

Me: Oh boy…

RC: I mean you’re going to need a place for the baby to go.

Me: What’s wrong with the floor?  I mean I’m not a total barbarian, we’ll be buying a crib, obviously.  But between the floor and the crib, it seems like I’m all set.

RC: Listen, I realize that having a child can be overwhelming.  I mean…when my nanny had to quit last summer, I wasn’t sure how I’d survive.

Me: OMG.  You’re not getting it.

RC: Have you hired a doula?

Me: STOP IT!  I AM NOT A RICH PERSON!  From what I understand, children have been able to survive in small spaces for millions of years and without hired help.

RC: No, of course ... Have you tried Target?  They have really inexpensive rocking ch…


But the damage had been done.  I started to obsess about how I was clearly a terrible mother for not allowing my unborn child to be rocked.  Surely she would turn out to be a drug addict because I didn’t have the room to appropriately rock her.  I mean her odds aren’t great to begin with.  Her dad’s an ex-junkie and her mom’s a drunken slut.  It’s possible that my refusal to buy a rocking chair is the thing that’s going to send my daughter straight to skid row.  At this point, I started throwing all of our furniture away to make room for a rocking chair.  Unfortunately, Husband caught me in the act.

Husband: What are you doing?

Me: Just throwing away these dressers and bookcases.

Husband: Where are we going to put our clothes and books?

Me: We don’t need books.  You have a kindle.

Husband: Not all books can go on a kindle.


Husband: Why are you crying?

Me: *Hysterically sobbing* Our daughter’s going to be a crackhead!

Husband: Honey, that doesn’t make any sense.  Neither of us liked crack.  I’m sure that’s gotta be a genetic thing.  If anything, we should make sure she doesn’t like getting shots.


Husband:  *Stunned silence*


Husband: What is even happening right now?


Husband: You are great and reasonably sized.


Husband: Oh boy…


Husband: Ok.  Here’s what we’re going to do.  You're going to take a nap and I will let you know when you can re-enter society.

I feel bad for Husband because he married me.  On the days when Husband demands that I take a nap, I become convinced that my parents hired him to be my caretaker.  Regardless, he is doing a great job.  Thank God I’m having his child because if he ever tries to leave me I will have our daughter to use as leverage.  Yesssss….

Sadly, the rocking chair was just the beginning.  Recently, people have been asking if I can feel my baby moving.

Horrible Stranger: Have you felt her move yet?

Me: Unclear.

HS: Really?  My baby moved constantly.

Me: Cool story, bro.

HS: Maybe lay on your side and drink ice water.

Me: It’s just weird because I never asked you how you thought I could overcome this dilemma.

HS: Sometimes if you’re not super small to begin with, you’ll have a harder time feeling anything.

Me: Um…did you just call me fat?

HS: No!  I was just saying that smaller people feel their babies.

Me: Do you happen to have a cigarette on you?

HS: *Blank stare.  Slowly walks away*

After like the eighth person asked about baby movement, I became convinced that my baby was dead.  I decided the best course of action would be to stay home from work, Google my symptoms, cry nonstop, download apps to try to hear my baby’s heartbeat, and have a pizza delivered every three hours.  Husband was home from work on this particular day and remained nonplussed.  He quietly worked while this tornado occurred around him.  Of course my doctor was on vacation that week and eventually I had to be sedated.  This was accomplished by eating nonstop carbs and crying hysterically.  At around 5 pm, Husband rocked me to sleep and told me that I was emotionally unstable but that our baby was just fine.  Usually his reasonableness makes me want to throttle him but on this particular day, I was grateful that my parents had hired him.

When I finally got to the doctor a week later and told her about my dead baby-meltdown, she laughed.  That bitch laughed right in my face.  I demanded to be medicated and she told me there was no need, “Oh please.  When I was pregnant, I used to think my baby was dead like once a day!  If it ever happens again, just come in and we’ll do a Doppler but your baby is just fine.  There’s nothing to worry about.”

So apparently this is a thing?  I’m not sure if it’s all pregnant women or just irrational pregnant women but terrifying things happen to me on a daily basis that I guess are just normal?  I literally can’t even deal with this anymore.  I’m totally sure that I’m too poor to be bringing a child into the world, I know literally nothing about what my body is doing or how I’m supposed to be feeling and once I got over the denial phase I jumped straight to the dead phase.  I cry all the time and look more fat than pregnant and at the end of all of this, I’ll be faced with the task of raising a girl who as we all know, already doesn’t like me.   I was sitting at work thinking about all this when all of a sudden I felt a flutter in my stomach.  I knew immediately what it was — my daughter.  She was frantically moving around to tell me that it was all going to be ok.  And in that moment I touched my hand to my stomach and thought, “You fucking witch.  You couldn’t have done this last week when I thought you were dead?!” 

I don’t know a lot about pregnancy or babies but I can guarantee that the next thing I felt was not gas.  It was my God damn kid laughing her ass off.  Pregnancy is terrible.  I can’t wait to meet this broad.  We have a lot to discuss. 

Monday, March 14, 2016


After finding out I was pregnant, my brother opted to propose to his girlfriend.  They’ve only been dating for around a decade so clearly he couldn’t have had this epiphany any sooner.  God forbid the other Royer jump to any hasty conclusions.  My brother and I are quite different.  I’m more of a “take action now, think later” type of girl.  I’m not saying this tactic is without consequences.  Exhibit A: Full Blown Pregnancy.  But at least I get things done!  Regardless, between my shoot from the hip behavior and his “I’m sure we’ll figure this all out later” strategy, we basically ruined everything. 

Brother did a valiant job of trying to include me in his wedding.  He opted to shotgun the situation and planned the entire charade for April in the Dominican Republic.  This would guarantee that I would be just pregnant enough to look terrible in a bridesmaid’s dress but not pregnant enough to not be able to go.  It was the perfect plan. 

My mother, Mimi, and her three sisters are what I like to call crazy.”  So when my mother called me and left the following voicemail, I deleted it immediately and moved on with my life.

Hey hun, it’s mom calling.  I talked with your Aunt Nancy and she says there’s a CDC warning that’s just been released for pregnant women who are traveling out of the country.  I wrote down all the info so that you can ask your doctor about it.  Call me back.

Now I love my mother, but this is the same woman who called me three months before we were leaving for Europe to remind me to bring a sweater.  I mean how does one even respond to something like that?

Hey mom!  Got your message about how I’ll probably need a sweater three months from now so I went ahead, pulled out my suitcase, put one sweater in it and am just going to keep it there until we leave.  Also, I wanted to let you know that I have the internet here in Los Angeles and am also pretty up to date on different layers of clothing but thanks for the tip!  Oh, and thanks for identifying yourself as mom” when you called.  I wasn’t sure who it was.

Sadly, the voicemails did not stop.  Aunt Nancy called next followed quickly by Aunt Naomi.  These bitches were relentless.  They were warning me against some purported virus that was sweeping third-world countries by way of mosquito.  It seemed sensational and suburban so I kept brushing it off.  I wouldn’t say my family is internationally friendly.  I went to Thailand during a coup once and my mother still refers to it as my suicide mission.  These women would not give up and eventually I was forced to Google their snoozy horror story.  Unfortunately, it seemed that in this particular instance, the witchy trio weren’t being as reactionary as I had originally thought.  I called my brother for a full debrief:

Me: Ya know how the women in our family are crazy?

Brother: Go on.

Me: They claim there’s a disease in Dominican Republic that’s specifically terrifying for pregnant women.

B: Doubt it.

Me: That’s what I said!  But I Googled it.  And it doesn’t look good.

B: What’s it called?

Me: The Zika virus.

B: Sounds made up.

Me: Agree.  I just figured they were being weirdo Americans.  But I looked it up.  The symptoms read like a sci-fi novel.  Basically if you get this thing while you’re pregnant, your baby will be born with a small head.

B: Who cares?  Nobody likes a big head.

Me: Right, but the head is like literally miniature. 

B: Like Beetlejuice?

Me: Exactly like Beetlejuice.

B: Oh my … Is that the only symptom?

Me: I think it starts with small head and ends with death.


Me: I know!  It’s horrid.  It’s called microcephaly.

B: But it’s in like rural parts of the Dominican, right?

Me: Well here’s the thing.  I did a little research and this is what I just read in the New York Times, On Tuesday, the Health Minister of the Dominican Republic reportedly advised women there not to have children.” 

B: Is this a joke?

Me: It doesn’t seem like it.

B: Why do these things happen to you?


B: Alright just calm down.  We’ll figure it out.

Well we” did figure it out and apparently we” all decided to go ahead and get married in Dominican Republic while Preggy McPreggerson stays back in California trying to find different objects to fashion into a noose.  Obviously it’s not my brother’s fault that a crippling shrunken-head disease struck a region at the exact same time of his wedding and at the precise moment that I had been knocked up BUT IT IS SEEMING A LITTLE RIDICULOUS THAT THIS SHIT KEEPS HAPPENING TO ME!  Hey, remember the time my whole spine fused together and then the drugs that I was given to fix it gave me Lupus?  THIS SEEMS LIKE THAT!

The rest of the week is a blur.  After I got off the phone with my brother, I was inconsolable.  I don’t know a lot about modern medicine or foreign diseases but it was obvious that I would not be attending his wedding.  I was super mature about it, in that I immediately turned to Husband and said, HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”  I then cried myself to sleep, woke up crying the next morning, went to work, cried at my desk, refused to speak to any of my family members and pouted for weeks.

This is going to sound harsh, but I don’t like my unborn child.  I found out it was a girl recently and I can tell you that she is not for me.  Basically she’s not even born yet and she’s already tearing my family apart.  I mean… I hope when she gets here she apologizes because to me, it’s just seeming like we’re getting off on the wrong foot. 

Everyone I know who has kids has told me that once that little bundle of joy gets here, I’ll immediately forget all the pain I suffered in creating her and I’ll just be so happy that I have a beautiful little girl.  I’m guessing those people have never been on a Caribbean vacation before. 

Creating life is a miracle sent from heaven lot like being a prisoner of war.  You’re totally isolated from your friends and family while forced to endure unspeakable psychological hardships.  I guess the only difference is that if I make it through this I don’t get a Purple Heart.  Instead, I’ll be rewarded with an entire person who’s forced into my custody for eighteen years which in some ways makes me its captor.  Ah… the circle of life.