tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19282201558013731162024-03-14T01:54:05.607-07:00This Is Going To WorkOne woman’s relentless search for something that fixes everything.Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-38407319521653325592017-06-07T12:22:00.000-07:002017-06-07T12:22:10.502-07:00Absolute Worst PodcastObviously I'm working on Parenting Part III but in the meantime, thought I'd let you all know about another project I'm working on! It's called Absolute Worst Podcast and you can listen <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/absolute-worst-podcast/id1240019983?mt=2#episodeGuid=tag%3Asoundcloud%2C2010%3Atracks%2F325922352" target="_blank">here</a>. It's very funny and my co-host is Dana Powell who is best known for her role as Cam's sister on something called Modern Family...whatever that is. Hope you listen and enjoy!!! More blog posts to come!<div>
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Alison</div>
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Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-72084282454729457752017-04-20T15:00:00.000-07:002017-04-20T15:00:04.151-07:00Parenting: Part II<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I used to be a
professional rapper. Wait … no. That came out wrong. What I meant to say is that one time I got
wasted in Manhattan and then spent the evening free-style rapping with a group
of men who I have to assume were in a professional rap group. Or maybe they were cokedealers, it’s hard to
say. What I CAN tell you is that in the
morning it was obvious that I had slept with one of them so I’m pretty sure I
made the team. Also, despite feeling
really confident that I had been in Manhattan, it was soberingly clear the
next day that I was now in New Jersey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I guess what I’m saying is
that I’m not well-suited to be a parent.
I’m not someone who “works hard to achieve their goals” or “learns from
their mistakes.” Instead I’ve spent my
life bucking authority, never reading the rules in the first place </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">—</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> thereby
ultimately breaking them and being severely punished </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">— </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">and, most embarrassingly,
realizing that my peers had been trudging along in an orderly fashion for years
and were now young professionals whereas I was in rehab.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> M</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">y life has been a real slap in the
face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Clearly parenting was not
part of the plan. While I was aware that
other people were having children, it was obvious to me that I would instead be
having whiskey so I didn’t pay a lot of attention to what would ultimately be
required. Most of my childhood friends
had children years ago and I wondered what had happened to them. I saw women who used to excel at joint-rolling now swaddling their newborns with the same sort of intense precision
and I wondered why they had traded in ganja for shitty diapers. Also, what was all the fuss about? Couldn’t you just throw a blanket on the kid
and call it a day? What was this perfect
origami sheet situation and how could it possibly be important? I watched my friends fret about their kid’s
schoolwork, struggle to buy houses in “good school districts” whatever that
meant, and meticulously chronicle their children’s sports activities, social
events, physical fitness, and general wellbeing.
In the end, I figured having offspring was unlikely, but if it
happened I wasn’t going to become one of <i>them</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I constructed a belief
that is already dissolving before my eyes: <b><u>I Am Not Going To Be A
Helicopter Parent!</u></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When Perfect Daughter was
born, I played it pretty fast and loose.
I didn’t insist that people antibacterial their entire bodies prior to
holding my kin. I brought her out of the
house pretty quickly with no fears of her absorbing world germs into her tiny,
new, pristine immune system. I wasn’t
going to be overbearing and over-involved or keep my kid in a glass
castle. She was gonna be passed around
like a cocktail. She was going to meet
new people and like it! She was going to
nap when she was tired, eat when she was hungry, and wear whatever the fuck I
had laying around. I wasn’t going to
fall victim to this belief that your kid needs to be sheltered and programmed
and calendared and scheduled. My kid was
gonna live it up and we were gonna roll with the punches!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">This lasted for around
three months during which she mostly slept and ate so there was little else to
be accomplished. But, as soon as she
started making eye contact and showing interest in the world around her, I started
to panic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me: Husband! She’s looking at me! What are three month olds supposed to be
doing?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Husband: What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me: Like, am I supposed to be doing
something? Surely she’s supposed to be
learning something. I can’t just sit
here like an asshole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Husband: I think she’s
supposed to be raising her head?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me: Shit! Raising her head?! And here I’ve been letting her lie around
like a fucking blob. Head raising … what
the fuck … How did you even know that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Husband: I Googled it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me: You Googled what?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Husband: What’s my three-month-old supposed to be doing?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me: You. Are. Fucking.
Brilliant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Little did Husband know he
was watching the beginning of my demise.
I started a daily Google search so that I could track the milestones
Perfect Daughter was supposed to be achieving and, like a good drug addict, I
got hooked. Before I knew it, I could
not be bothered with any activity that did not immediately further her ascension to
first female president or C.E.O. or Soul Cycle Instructor. Perfect Daughter was going to take over the
world and clearly she needed me to guide her.
I started demanding that all toys be educational. I banned rice cereal because there have been studies
that show it is laced with arsenic. I
forbid all walkers, jumpers, and other gadgets that would have ultimately made
my life significantly easier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I adopted a theory that, if I was happy or relaxed, my child wasn’t engaged and therefore she wasn’t
learning which meant she would probably end up homeless or worse, find herself
in a position where she thought she was auditioning for a rap group in New
York. Luckily, my inner-voice did a
wonderful job of keeping me on track.
Anytime I thought a nap sounded nice, the alarms would ring and the
helicopter parent that was growing inside me would scream, “A NAP?! ARE YOU
KIDDING ME, YOU LAZY FUCK?! MUST BE NICE
TO TOTALLY CHECK OUT WHILE YOUR PERFECT DAUGHTER LEARNS LITERALLY NOTHING AND
THEN SLEEPS UNDER A BRIDGE SOMEWHERE FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?! NEXT THING YOU KNOW, YOU’LL BE LETTING HER
PARTICIPATE IN SCREEN TIME, YOU PATHETIC DEGENERATE!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Things were not going well
and I was about to embark in every Helicopter Parent’s worst nightmare —
daycare. This is when you leave your
child with strangers who you’re certain aren’t as smart as you despite the fact
that you’ve had six months of experience with a child and they’ve had literal
years. Regardless, I was on high alert
and things started to spiral out of control.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">In the beginning, I
attempted the Perfect Mother approach. I
brought pastries in on my first day.
Then I started handing out individualized gifts to each caretaker with
thoughtful notes written on behalf of Perfect Daughter. I sent emails with helpful hints and
suggestions in case they were wondering how to fulfill Perfect Daughter’s every
want and desire. When these offerings
weren’t met with immediate responsiveness and gratitude, I concluded that my
child was being held hostage by a band of self-important dimwits. I became increasingly suspicious and paranoid
that these women were somehow trying to outsmart me. I couldn’t exactly tell what they were doing
wrong but I knew it was something and I was determined to get to the bottom of
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">For starters, I found it
to be very suspicious that someone was always holding Perfect Daughter every day when
I picked her up. There’s a lock on the
door (which I approved of because it will keep out the murderers that are rampant
in suburban Glendale, CA), so I have to knock every time I come to get my
precious cargo. I concluded that they
were waiting to see which parent’s car pulled up, at which point they would pay
extra special attention to that person’s baby in order to make it look like our
children were in the hands of loving caretakers and not THE LITERAL MONSTERS I
had convinced myself they were. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Thus began an eccentric
car hiding process — I would park in places that would not reveal my car so
they couldn’t look out the window and ready themselves for my arrival. AH-HA!!!
I braced myself to find my beautiful fawn chained to furniture or
otherwise abandoned. I shared my beliefs
with Husband and he threatened divorce then suggested potential hospitals where
I could maybe “get some rest” and “meet some new friends.” I could tell he didn’t love our daughter
nearly as much as I did and I felt sad that he would have to live alone someday
while Perfect Daughter and I moved forward together in our impeccable lives
void of pacifiers (NO!) and nonorganic baby food (ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But my imagined fate never
materialized. Each day, I walked in to
find Perfect Daughter in varying degrees of self-soothing, independent play, or
otherwise general happiness in the loving arms of an Armenian woman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">At this point, I was
exhausted. Maybe it was from all the
extra miles I was walking to daycare while my car hid near a row of
camouflaging bushes. Maybe my eyes were
weakened from the tireless amounts of reading I had done on which toys are best
if you want your six month old to eventually attend an Ivy League school. Or maybe my brain was scrambled from the
constant demands my inner-Helicopter Parent voice was barking at me involving
reading books together every day, having a consistent sleep schedule, only
dressing your child in cotton pajamas, making sure they get 10-12 hours of
sleep a night, don’t forget to lose that baby weight! OH MY GOD, STOP
EVERYTHING, SHE LOOKED AT THE TELEVISION!
ALL IS LOST!</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’ve
regressed.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">After the
stalker/believed-to-be hostage situation, I threw in the towel.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Per</span>fect Daughter was obviously fine and I was obviously about to spontaneously
combust. I stopped trying to trick her caretakers, I’ve started letting her eat
whatever she wants, and I don’t panic if someone tries to put her in a jumper
(although I will monitor her tirelessly).</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Ultimately, I just want Perfect Daughter to be happy.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I want her to be safe and I want her to be
healthy.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">And every day I try like hell
to be a good parent because at the end of the day, I think we all just want the
same thing for our kids — each morning, when they wake up, we want them to know
which state they’re in.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-37732032560593627662017-03-16T10:11:00.000-07:002017-03-16T10:11:29.308-07:00Parenting: Part I<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Well,
hell has officially frozen over — a small child has been left in my care and
it’s just dawning on me that I am literally responsible for her for the rest of
my life. In the beginning, after
accepting the <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-birth.html" target="_blank">horrific physical ailments</a> I was left to overcome, I
started to settle into this parenting thing I’d heard of. I had acquired virtually no parenting skills, nor had I picked up any tips throughout the duration of my life, so I was very
much going in blind. All I had in my
arsenal was a series of beliefs I had developed while single.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">First
and foremost: <b><u>I Am Not Going To Let A Child Keep Me From Living My Life!<o:p></o:p></u></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As
an adolescent, I would scoff at sad women wrestling with strollers on busy city
streets. I felt sorry for them and thought
to myself, “I will never let having a baby keep me from living my life and
having a good time.” This seemed like a
reasonable and achievable ideal but I’m sad to say I’ve fallen short. It’s unclear whether I’ll be able to overcome
my current obstacles or if I should just get a Kate Plus 8 haircut and throw in
the towel.<b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">To
be fair, things started off wonderfully.
Within a week of having Perfect Daughter ripped from my abdomen, I was
sauntering over to Target to pick up a few things I needed. In the beginning, I took Perfect Daughter
with me everywhere. If she was sleeping
and someone commented on what a good child she was, I took full responsibility
as though I had already imparted some sort of parental wisdom onto her </span></span><span style="font-size: 16px;">—</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> when, in
all reality, the smaller the baby, the more they sleep. Regardless, I felt pretty proud of myself for
all I had accomplished. It could not
have been easier and I was wondering what all the fuss was about. Perhaps it was the pain meds talking, but I
started calling all my friends and telling them to go ahead and have babies
because it was easy As Fuck. Perfect
Daughter and I were living life to the fullest.
We went shopping, we went for walks, we cooked dinners, we napped. It was glorious. </span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">From
there, things devolved into total pandemonium.
The thing about fatigue is that at first it’s cute — you have an extra
little buzz going as you move through your day and it’s just the kick in the
rear that you needed. After two weeks,
you’re wired but it’s kind of nice because you feel sort of high and you
realize you can survive solely on cigarettes and espresso and you start to feel
very European. After a month you realize
that having a baby was a huge mistake and you would complain to your friends
about it but you no longer have time to talk to them nor are you able to shower
or get dressed. One day while I was
sitting in my apartment, covered in my own filth and trying to figure out how
to sleep and eat at the same time, I wondered how things had unraveled to such
a degree. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
I returned to work. And all hell broke
loose. On day one I was struck with the
realization that in order to get my kid to childcare and myself to work on time,
I’d need to wake up at 5:30 a.m. I’m
someone who has historically stayed out until 5:30 a.m. In Chicago, there are 2 a.m. bars and 4 a.m. bars
and on Saturday everything is open an hour later so 5:30 a.m. is typically when
you get in a cab with your friends and go looking for drugs. Nowadays, 5:30 a.m. is dedicated to the
extraction of milk from my bosom, assembling the gajillions of baby accoutrements
required for day care, feeding and dressing child, feeding and dressing myself
and then inevitably realizing that I’m running late and have forgotten a
multitude of steps that needed to be accomplished. Most mornings I realize that I’m a horrible
failure by around 6 a.m. At that point,
there’s no hope in trying to save the day so I just start looking for french
fries and counting down the hours until it’s bedtime again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">As
if I didn’t have enough on my plate, my hateful “friends” eventually started
inviting me to do things. It was a huge
slap in the face and I was furious. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My
Friend Josh: Hey lady! I’m going to be
in town next week. Would love to get
together for dinner!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Oh, that’s out of the question. Perfect
Daughter goes to bed at 7 p.m.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Josh:
No, I totally get it. I’m happy to come
to your apartment instead of us going out to a restaurant. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
I don’t know if you heard me. I get home
at 6 p.m. and she goes to bed at 7 p.m.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Josh:
Riiight. I guess I just thought we could
have a little nosh and catch up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Catch up? CATCH UP?! I AM TRYING TO RAISE A PERFECT DAUGHTER,
JOSH! I DON’T THINK YOU’RE GETTING
IT. Are you aware that babies need 10-12
hours of sleep each night and that perfect daughter wakes up several times over
the course of each evening meaning I never know exactly how much sleep I’m
going to get? I don’t know if you’re
aware, JOSH, but I have to wake up at 5:30 a.m. every morning. FIVE-THIRTY!
Literally no one in the course of history has had to wake up as early as
I have to wake up every morning so I would really appreciate it if you could
respect that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Josh:
Totally, I just…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
I don’t think you’re getting it, JOSH. I
am a mother…A MOTHER! I’m SORRY if I’m
trying to put my daughter first. I’m
sorry if studies have shown that lack of sleep leads to a weakened immune
system thereby making it more difficult to retain certain lessons throughout
the school day making it harder to get into a good college which makes it more
difficult to be gainfully employed which then leads to a higher mortality
rate. DO YOU WANT PERFECT DAUGHTER TO
DIE, JOSH?!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Josh:
I’m confused. Is your six-month-old in
school?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
THAT’S NOT THE POINT! GOD, YOU JUST DON’T
GET IT BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT A PARENT, JOSH!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Here’s
the thing. I have become unreasonably
obsessed with my child. I no longer live
my life or do things that don’t involve teaching my child some sort of
monumental life lesson. This shouldn’t
really be all that surprising. I’m a <a href="https://www.blogger.com/">horrible alcoholic <span id="goog_868210237"></span></a>with a bad attitude so it was safe to assume childbirth was going
to go one of two ways: 1) I was going to reject the fetus and expect it to
make it on its own; or 2) I was going to become overbearing and protective of
the most Perfect Daughter in the world, readjust my schedule in order to
accommodate her flawless life, and reject all things that didn’t support the
betterment of her journey to be the most well-rounded, well-adjusted,
brilliant, supportive, unblemished, curious, healthy Perfect Daughter in the
world. It’s safe to say I’ve fallen into
the second category. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
not sure how I let this happen. I barely
had a social life to begin with. I have
had incredibly unreasonable excuses every time someone asks me why I can’t
leave my house and the sad part is, I literally believe myself when I’m
talking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Hateful
Friend #1: Hey, we’re all driving to Santa Barbara this weekend. Do you wanna come?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Perfect Daughter doesn’t really like being in a car for long periods of time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Hateful
Friend #2: Yo! I’m in your neighborhood
and thought we could go for a walk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
Ya know, I’d love to but Perfect Daughter isn’t feeling well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Hateful
Husband: Sex?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Me:
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! I’M EXHAUSTED, YOU MONSTER!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m
a shell of my former self. After a mere
seven months, I have removed everything in my path that does not immediately
fulfill some part of Perfect Daughter’s life.
So I tried to think back to that surly twenty-something that was
literally pushing pregnant women over in the street and I realized that that
woman was just as ill-informed. I
suppose this is what Oprah refers to as “balance.” Currently I have none. I’m trying to find that cushy spot between
daily drinker and pathetic shut-in. I’m
sure it’s best to start small. Husband
and I have a date on Friday night. We
hired something called a babysitter.
From what I understand that’s a person who watches your baby while you
go try to save your marriage. To be
honest, this entire experiment is already causing me a lot of anxiety. But Perfect Daughter needs to buck the fuck
up and I need to be awake past 9 p.m.
Turns out it’s slightly difficult to make no changes to your life once a
baby arrives. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span class="MsoPageNumber"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">There
are a few things that will likely never return like going on a last minute
trip, staying up until 4 a.m., and the <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/11/a-womans-worth.html" target="_blank">suppleness of my vagina</a>. But there are lots of new things that are fun
in a different way like watching your daughter grow into a person who can run
errands for you and teaching someone to swear.
It’s a give and take really. My
life will never be the same. But I don’t
have to die in the transition.
Twenty-something me was fun and she made some good points. Sure she drank to blackout proportions, slept
with strangers, and judged her elders.
But she knew that you could still be a fun-loving and effective person
even if you never showered. I love her
for teaching me that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-23387890822425011062016-11-10T09:09:00.000-08:002017-03-16T10:12:22.074-07:00A Woman's Worth<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">After three days of </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-birth.html" target="_blank">changing my own diaper</a></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">, 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. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I don’t have a good track record where </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2012/03/hospital-part-1.html" target="_blank">wellness</a></span><span style="font-kerning: none;"> is concerned. Conversely, every time I turn around—oh wait, I can’t turn around because my </span><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2012/03/hospital-final-diagnosis.html" target="_blank">entire spine is fused together</a></span><span style="font-kerning: none;">. 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. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: Um…what’s so funny?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr.: Alison, I don’t know how you do it.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr.: You have Atrophic Vaginitis.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.”</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr.: Basically all the estrogen in your body is moving to your breasts in order to create milk…</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: Gross</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr.: As a result, there is no estrogen left to keep your vagina moist and supple…</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: I’m literally throwing up in my mouth right now.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: OMG, PLEASE STOP TALKING! </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr.: This is typically found in postmenopausal women.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: Obviously.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr.: I’m going to give you a cream that needs to be administered via syringe into your vagina.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: This can’t be happening.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dr.: It is. Good luck.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: Again, didn’t you have to take some sort of bedside-manner class?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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?! </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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. </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: Hi. I think I have Poison Oak.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Walgreens Person: Have you been near the wilderness?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: I mean…I live in Glendale and we have squirrels there. Does that count?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WP: No.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: Listen, you’re being mean. I just had a baby and am clearly dying of some sort of flesh-eating bacteria.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WP: Oh, so it’s possible that this is postpartum. Are you stressed at all?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: IS THAT A JOKE, LADY? A SMALL PERSON HAS BEEN LEFT IN MY CARE FOR LITERALLY THE REST OF MY LIFE. MY VAGINA HAS BEEN COMPLETELY SHATTERED AND HUSBAND IS BOUND TO LEAVE ME AT ANY MOMENT. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO BE A SINGLE MOM WITHOUT A VAGINA?! ANSWER ME! </span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WP: You have postpartum hives.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: No, thank you.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WP: Just wipe Benadryl cream all over your arms and legs until it feels better.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: Well I’d love to but I’m a little busy shooting it up my vagina right now.</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WP: Excuse me?</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Me: YOU’RE NOT A REAL DOCTOR!</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal; min-height: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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!</span></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">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.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But I have dreams.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And I have goals.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And if there’s one thing I know about breastfeeding, it’s that it burns a lot of calories.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And Goddamnit I want to wear </span><a href="https://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2013/05/pants-are-my-nemesis.html" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">pants</a><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> someday. </span></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-17929971263252409192016-09-20T12:11:00.003-07:002016-09-20T12:11:48.110-07:00The Birth<div class="Body">
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 <span lang="IT"><a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2012/03/hospital-final-diagnosis.html" target="_blank">spinal fusion</a></span> and had convinced
myself that this was really the way to go.
In retrospect, I may have been mistaken.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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’<span lang="DE">M SORRY . . . </span>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 blas<span lang="FR">é </span>when she nonchalantly said, <span lang="DE">“</span>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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Dr.: Hey Alison, how are you feeling today?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE">Alison: Um . . . </span>a
stranger is shaving my crotch literally right now and you are trying to make
small talk. I wish I was dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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, <span lang="DE">“</span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Random Nurse #1: Hey Claire, did you ever get that lasagna recipe
I sent you?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Random Nurse #2: I did actually!
We made it for John’s birthday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Anesthesiologist: Ok Alison, you’re going to feel a little
pinch. Are you ready?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me (while shaking uncontrollably): Are those women talking about
lasagna?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Anesthesiologist: I’m sure they’re not. Everyone here is very concerned about your
well-being.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
RN #1: Did I tell you that Janie and Bobby are getting married?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Anesthesiologist: Mmmkk Alison, you’re going to start feeling a
little numb. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE">Me: WHO IS BARB?! WHY IS SHE SO MAD?</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Anesthesiologist: Alison, it’s normal to feel overwhelmed by the
anesthesia. Are you having trouble
breathing? It’s important that you stay
relaxed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: I MEAN I LITERALLY WANT TO BUT I’VE GOT THE YOUNG AND THE
RESTLESS HAPPENING OVER THERE AND IT IS DISTRACTING ME!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Anesthesiologist: Alison, calm down. Do you want me to go get your husband?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Of course I do! I
didn’t even know he wasn’t in here. HE
IS MY CARETAKER! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,
GET HIM IN HERE AND WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK BARB’<span lang="DA">S PROBLEM IS!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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’<span lang="DE">S A GINGER!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Literally. I had a Ginger
Baby. I’m not even sure how it’s
possible. I remember hearing this
proclamation and thinking, <span lang="DE">“</span><span lang="FR">wait . . . </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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, <span lang="DE">“</span>ok
Alison, is it ok if I put your baby on you?”
I remember thinking, <span lang="DE">“h</span>oly
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: <span lang="DE">“</span>bitch I carried that Ginger for
nine God damn months, I had <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/06/final-stretch.html" target="_blank">shingles</a> 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!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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 <span lang="NL"><a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2014/06/relax.html" target="_blank">Korean Spa</a></span>. 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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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, <span lang="DE">“n</span>ot 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, <span lang="DE">“don</span>’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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Angry Nurse: Why haven’t you fed your baby?!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: OMG, what time is it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Angry Nurse: It’s 3 a.m.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Why are you yelling at me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Angry Nurse: You need to feed your baby.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: I literally just did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Angry Nurse: Why didn’t you write it down?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE">Me: OH I</span>’<span lang="DE">M SORRY, I</span>’<span lang="DE">M A LITTLE BUSY CHANGING MY OWN DIAPER AND
VOMITING ICE CHIPS ALL OVER MYSELF. GET
OFF MY BACK, DEVIL WOMAN!</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="Body">
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.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GKrul5YXVlQ/V-GJxNwGzdI/AAAAAAAAAWk/6xtG86pZU9ME8buHqN-73cxqHhpi95bLwCEw/s1600/13920908_10153902127964503_8452206301633635695_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GKrul5YXVlQ/V-GJxNwGzdI/AAAAAAAAAWk/6xtG86pZU9ME8buHqN-73cxqHhpi95bLwCEw/s320/13920908_10153902127964503_8452206301633635695_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-53782321052363888052016-08-10T11:58:00.000-07:002016-08-10T11:58:44.402-07:00Winter Is Coming.<div class="Body">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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!!!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Due to the fact that my entire spine is fusing together, I am
scheduled to have a C-Section on August 11<sup>th</sup> at 7:15 a.m. As
previously mentioned, I’ve opted to <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/05/research-is-for-dummies.html" target="_blank">roll through this pregnancy blind</a>
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 <span lang="DE">“</span>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<span lang="IT"> rip</span>s
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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:<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Martha: </span></b><b><span style="color: #2a2e2e; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">“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.”</span></b><b><span style="color: #2a2e2e; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 120%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ok,
so obviously I hadn’t started in the right place. My first attempt at pregnant
solidarity was to Google, <span lang="DE">“</span>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, <span lang="DE">“</span>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:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">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!”</span></b><b><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
went to Canter’s one day for brunch and they told me I was too big to fit in a
booth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body" style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">16. Baby hiccups!
Once I figured out what those weird rhythmic pulses in my belly were, they gave
me a good giggle.</span></b><b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Is that the thing where it feels like you’re getting punched in
the cunt?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">18. Watching my
husband look at cribs and diaper pails with the intensity he used to save for
digital cameras and HDTV.</span></b><b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Replace <span lang="DE">“</span>digital
cameras and HDTV” with <span lang="DE">“</span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
The coup de grace came when I accidentally stumbled upon this on
Pinterest:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xh6G3dODoRo/V6t23jINFWI/AAAAAAAAAV8/ptDeX0yTJko9kW0ki5D8-DTw_EXpup1TACLcB/s1600/pintrest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xh6G3dODoRo/V6t23jINFWI/AAAAAAAAAV8/ptDeX0yTJko9kW0ki5D8-DTw_EXpup1TACLcB/s320/pintrest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mine should read: I’m mildly tolerating the parasite that’s
trying to kill me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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?! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
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Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-23812249840103752502016-06-27T12:20:00.000-07:002016-06-27T12:20:23.163-07:00Final Stretch<div class="Body">
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 <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/02/im-probably-dying.html" target="_blank">mouth ulcers</a>, 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.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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: <span lang="DE">“</span>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. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Doctor: Oh! I see what the
problem is. Nothing to worry about. You just have a yeast infection.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: What?! That sounds
fucking disgusting. Stop pretending that this
isn’t a big deal.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Doctor: Oh, it’s really
common in pregnant women. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Does it happen because our children are hogging all of our
nutrients?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Doctor: What?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: I just think my daughter is stealing all my nutrients and I
want her to stop.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Doctor: I mean…she needs them to live.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: BUT WHAT ABOUT ME?!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Doctor: You’ll just be a little more tired and you may have a
yeast infection from time to time.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Please stop saying that.
It is so gross.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Doctor: Mmmkkk. Get
yourself some Monistat 7. You’ll be
fine. And be grateful you’re having a
healthy baby.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
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 <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/05/research-is-for-dummies.html" target="_blank">walk</a>
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.” </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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 <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">—</span> Husband’s least favorite activity <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">—</span> when he noticed something was askew.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Husband:
What happened to your back? </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Me:
Oh God, is this an ass joke?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Husband:
No, it looks like you have a rash.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="IT">Me: Stop it.</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Husband:
Come here. I’m trying to get a picture.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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!!!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Me:
Hi Dr, just wanted to follow-up on our sexts.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Doctor:
Please don’t ever do that again.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Me:
I get it. No one likes seeing my naked
body.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Doctor:
You have shingles.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Me:
Right, I heard. The thing is, what is
that?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Doctor:
It’s a viral infection.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Me:
But why do I have it?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Doctor:
It’s usually brought on by a weakened immune system or stress. Do you feel that you’ve been stressed at all?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Me:
IS THAT A JOKE?! OF COURSE I’<span lang="DE">VE BEEN STRESSED! FOR STARTERS, MY ENTIRE SPINE IS FUSING
TOGETHER WHICH MEANS I HAVE TO HAVE A BABY LITERALLY RIPPED OUT OF ME WHICH
SOUNDS HORRIBLE. I</span>’M NOT ALLOWED TO DRINK OR SMOKE SO I HAVE NO WAY OF <span lang="DE">“</span>RELAXING” AND I HAVEN’<span lang="DE">T SEEN MY VAGINA IN LITERAL WEEKS. FOR ALL I KNOW I HAVE A DICK THERE NOW SO YEAH,
I</span>’D SAY I’M MINORLY STRESSED.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Doctor:
I think you may be overreacting. Lots of
people get shingles.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="DE">Me:
WHO?! WHO GETS SHINGLES?! LITERALLY NO ONE!</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Doctor:
My grandma had it.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
*click*</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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.</div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-67711309586380275402016-05-26T14:23:00.001-07:002016-05-26T14:23:31.772-07:00Research Is For Dummies<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/02/trafficam-i-right.html" target="_blank">pregnancy test</a>. 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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman Who Cares About Her Child: Um…Alison. Are you eating lunch meat?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Damn right I am.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman: You’re not supposed to eat lunch meat while you’re
pregnant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I doubt that. I
think you’re confusing lunch meat with smoking.
Smoking is questionable. Lunch
meat is fine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman: I promise you, lunch meat is not ok.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman: OMG.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: What?!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman: Are you drinking Diet Coke?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Oh boy…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman: Aside from the fact that you’re not supposed to have
caffeine, aspartame has been linked to several different types of birth
defects.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Woman: Wait…aren’t you an alcoholic?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: WAY TO REMIND ME, FUN POLICE! THANKS FOR RUINING LITERALLY THE ONLY THING I
THOUGHT I HAD TO LOOK FORWARD TO!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Um...I think my belly button is broken.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: It’s just getting ready to pop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: LOL. You’re
stupid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: What?
No. Literally, at some point it
will pop out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Gross. Why?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband. Well,
your expanding uterus puts pressure on the rest of your abdomen which pushes
your belly button outward. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: How do you even know these things?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Well I realized we were having a baby and decided
to do like a thirty second Google search on what that would entail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: You’re not better than me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: It feels like I am cause you continue to know
literally nothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I know tons of stuff!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: How many weeks pregnant are you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: *blank stare*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Don’t you want to know anything about what’s
happening to you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Not really.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Why?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: It just feels like a lot of work.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Are you at all concerned about our child’s future?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Absolutely. But
it feels like you’ve got this under control.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: I hate you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Well you can’t leave me because I’m having your child.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Ugh…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#1 I was 40 lbs. heavier that I had been when I booked the
trip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#2 New Orleans is humid AF.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#3 I was beginning to experience feet swelling due to
pregnancy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#5 If you’re pregnant, you’re going to need water which I
had failed to take into consideration.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>more likely you are to enjoy yourself. Please stop sending me books. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nVrUm9-l--M/V0dpQuLzcwI/AAAAAAAAAVc/uAWflI6VuPo4akfZJ_tNcSt2Qh94CQxqwCLcB/s1600/IMG_0754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nVrUm9-l--M/V0dpQuLzcwI/AAAAAAAAAVc/uAWflI6VuPo4akfZJ_tNcSt2Qh94CQxqwCLcB/s320/IMG_0754.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-68387597878898794962016-04-18T16:11:00.000-07:002016-04-19T10:13:27.746-07:00Preggo Psycho<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>you</i>, I mean the same women who offered
up a barrage of suggestions when I got <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/01/i-literally-do.html" target="_blank">married</a>. 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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/02/bridezilla.html" target="_blank">register for gifts</a> — my worst nightmare.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rich Coworker: Make sure you register for a gate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Excuse me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RC: You don’t want your child falling down the stairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Right, well I live in a tiny apartment with no
staircases so I don’t see this posing as a problem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RC: Oh. That’s nice.
What about a rocking chair?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Again, tiny apartment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RC: Surely you have room for one more chair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RC: Well I’m sure you’ll have a
swing for her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Oh boy…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RC: I mean you’re going to need a
place for the baby to go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: OMG. You’re not getting it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RC: Have you hired a doula?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
RC: No, of course ... Have you tried Target? They have really inexpensive rocking ch…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I DON’T NEED A ROCKING
CHAIR!!!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: What are you doing?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Just throwing away these
dressers and bookcases.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Where are we going to put
our clothes and books?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: We don’t need books. You have a kindle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Not all books can go on a
kindle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: HOW DARE YOU TRY TO TELL ME
HOW BOOKS WORK! I WENT TO COLLEGE! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Why are you crying?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: *Hysterically sobbing* Our
daughter’s going to be a crackhead!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: BUT WE DON’T HAVE A ROCKING
CHAIR AND SHE’S GOING TO KNOW THAT WE DON’T LOVE HER!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: *Stunned silence*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: YOU HATE ME!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: What is even happening
right now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I’M TOO FAT TO BE LOVED!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: You are great and
reasonably sized.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: WE NEED TO BUY A HOUSE!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Husband: Oh boy…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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….</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly, the rocking chair was just
the beginning. Recently, people have
been asking if I can feel my baby moving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Horrible Stranger: Have you felt
her move yet?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Unclear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HS: Really? My baby moved constantly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Cool story, bro.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HS: Maybe lay on your side and
drink ice water.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: It’s just weird because I never
asked you how you thought I could overcome this dilemma.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HS: Sometimes if you’re not super
small to begin with, you’ll have a harder time feeling anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Um…did you just call me fat?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HS: No! I was just saying that smaller people feel
their babies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Do you happen to have a
cigarette on you?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
HS: *Blank stare. Slowly walks away*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I finally got to the doctor a
week later and told her about my dead baby-meltdown<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>, 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.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/02/im-probably-dying.html" target="_blank">denial</a>
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?!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-75066355681932240652016-03-14T11:56:00.000-07:002016-03-14T11:56:02.520-07:00POW<div style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mother, Mimi, and her three
sisters are what I like to call <span lang="DE">“</span>crazy.” So when my
mother called me and left the following voicemail, I deleted it immediately and
moved on with my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span lang="DA">Hey
hun, it</span></i><i>’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.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>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 </i><i><span lang="DE">“</span></i><i>mom” when you called. I wasn’t sure who it was.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Ya know how the women in our family are
crazy?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Brother: Go on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: They claim there’s a disease
in Dominican Republic that’s specifically terrifying for pregnant women.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Doubt it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: That’s what I said! But I Googled it. And it doesn’t look good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: What’s it called?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: The Zika virus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Sounds made up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Who cares? Nobody likes a big head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Right, but the head is like
literally miniature. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Like Beetlejuice?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Exactly like Beetlejuice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Oh my … Is that the only
symptom?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: I think it starts with small
head and ends with death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: WHAT?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: I know! It’s horrid.
It’s called microcephaly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: But it’s in like rural parts
of the Dominican, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Well here’s the thing. I did a little research and this is what I
just read in the New York Times, <span lang="DE">“</span>On Tuesday, the Health Minister of the Dominican Republic
reportedly advised women there not to have children.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Is this a joke?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: It doesn’t seem like it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Why do these things happen to
you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: WHAT DO YOU MEAN <span lang="DE">“THESE
THINGS?</span>” <span lang="DE">OH, NOW I</span>’M RESPONSIBLE FOR AN ENTIRE CARIBBEAN EPIDEMIC?! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">B: Alright just calm down. We’ll figure it out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well <span lang="DE">“</span>we” did figure it out and
apparently <span lang="DE">“</span>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! <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-bitch-is-back.html" target="_blank">Hey, remember the time my whole spine fused together and then the drugs that I was given to fix it gave me Lupus?</a> THIS SEEMS LIKE THAT!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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, <span lang="DE">“</span>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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Creating life is a <s>miracle
sent from heaven</s> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="DE"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-22605159899148073852016-02-18T11:06:00.000-08:002016-02-18T11:06:10.642-08:00I'm Probably Dying<div class="BodyA">
In case you’re new here, I was recently diagnosed with pregnancy
and everything is literally terrible. I
just visited my doctor for the first time since my diagnosis. I was alarmed that she didn’t want to see me
earlier but I guess we’re all just putting a ton of stock into <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2016/02/trafficam-i-right.html" target="_blank">stolen pregnancy tests</a>. They seem to be regarded by
the medical community as wholly accurate.
Anyway, my doctor finally agreed to see me when I was 8 weeks pregnant
and she did something called an ultrasound.
This is where they cover your stomach with Vaseline and then make you
look at a fuzzy computer screen and try to convince you that the black and
white static you’re viewing is actually your baby. Obviously I wasn’t buying it.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
After that charade, they let me see the actual doctor. Our first visit did not go well.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Doctor: Alison!
Congratulations!</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: On what?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: Your pregnancy?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: Oh right. Sorry. I think I’m still in the denial stage.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: What?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: You know: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: Those are the 5 stages of grief.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: What’s your point?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: Oh…was this pregnancy not planned?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: I mean…you basically tricked me into it remember? You said I’d never get pregnant because I’m <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/12/hi-im-not-pregnant_42.html" target="_blank">elderly and obese</a><span lang="RU">?</span></div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: Well, since we’re on the subject, you’ve already gained 20
lbs. which is what you should be gaining overall throughout your entire
pregnancy. You’ve managed to reach that
within your first 8 weeks.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: Why is it that you hate me?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: Excuse me?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: I’m just wondering if you ever have anything nice to say.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: Your baby seems healthy, so that’s good.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: Exactly. Aren’t you going to give me any credit for keeping this
thing alive for 8 weeks?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: Good job. Have you
quit smoking?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: Listen lady, you don’t need to know everything.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
<span lang="DA">Ugh</span>…I’ve never
been good with <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-bitch-is-back.html" target="_blank">doctors</a>. She
wasn’t wrong about the weight gain but it just doesn’t seem like I should be
held responsible. Horrible things happen
to your body when you catch pregnancy.
For starters, my tits got enormous.
And not in like a fun, Pam Anderson kind of way. It’s more of a horrific National Geographic
situation. Husband saw me naked one day
and literally called the police. </div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
In addition, the only thing I had actually been looking forward
to in the first trimester was constant vomiting. I thought this would surely be my
breakthrough moment into improbable skinniness.
I figured I’d be one of those anomalies where you actually lose weight
when pregnant because you’re yacking the entire time. I was more than willing to take one for the
team if it meant justified bulimia and incredible weight loss. Of course, I caught no such break. Instead, I had nonstop nausea. As we all know, pregnancy is a <s>gift from
God</s> lot like food poisoning. I spend
most days curled up in the fetal position begging Husband to feed me like a
bird because I don’t have the strength to feed myself yet food is the only
thing that helps. NO WONDER I GAINED 20
LBS. YOU GOD DAMN TWAT DOCTOR! I was
doing my best to keep the nausea at bay by eating nonstop and in the end all I
got was a shaming by my medical professional.
I’ve never been a heroin addict (humble brag) but Husband was and he
says that pregnancy seems a lot like being dope sick. It’s so great being married to such a worldly
man.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Every day I wake up, I experience a fun new pregnancy
symptom. I basically just Google whatever’s
wrong with me followed by the word <span lang="DE">“</span>pregnancy.” “Bone crushing fatigue pregnancy,<span lang="PT">” “</span>Mouth filled with canker sores
pregnancy,<span lang="PT">” “</span>Only have a
taste for hot dogs pregnancy.” And sure
as shit, there is a world of women out there who have suffered the exact same
ailments. It’s excruciating. I tried to bring all of this up at my
doctor’s appointment but clearly, that bitch was not interested.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: Listen, it feels like there’s an alien growing inside of me.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: There is.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: No, but I mean it feels like it doesn’t want to be in
there. Is it too early to induce?</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: You’re only 8 weeks pregnant.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: I understand it might be risky, but I don’t see any other
way.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Dr: I’m not sure you’re ready to be a mom.</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
Me: OBVIOUSLY, YOU WITCH!</div>
<div class="BodyA">
<br /></div>
<div class="BodyA">
No, but I’m being serious, how much longer does this last? The other night I slept for 12 hours and then
woke up to something called mouth ulcers.
This is a literal thing that happens to pregnant people. I know what you’re thinking: <span lang="DE">“</span>Alison, those are herpes.” NO THEY’RE NOT! THEY ARE MOUTH ULCERS, LOOK IT UP! Sorry.
I don’t know why I’m trying to convince you that I have ulcers and not
herpes. Nothing makes sense. I know none of us are surprised to hear that
I’m not doing well. And I know you would
give me a hug right now if you could but it wouldn’t be a good idea because my
jugs hurt so fucking bad that when people hug me it feels like slivers of glass
are being dragged across my areolas. As
I’m sure you can imagine, my sex life is better than ever. Pray for me.
I might not make it. </div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-40676002361649065652016-02-05T09:34:00.000-08:002016-02-05T09:34:17.406-08:00Traffic...Am I Right?!<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So here’s
what happened: First of all, let’s just all agree that no matter what’s said
here today, we’re not going to talk about it on my Facebook page. The
information I’m about to reveal is specifically designed for the elite group of
devotees who get me like no one else ever will. I’ve been sitting on this
information because I don’t want a bunch of strangers hounding me but if you’re
reading this, you’re no stranger. If you really feel like you need to
congratulate me, let’s agree that we do that here or that you call me, text me,
email me, come over, etc. Deal? Deal. It’s our little secret.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So anyway,
December was a harrowing month for me. For starters, Husband left me… for
work… for a month. He claimed this was necessary in order for him to make
money for the team but it was obvious that he had fallen out of love with
me. He kept insisting that it was all for the betterment of our marriage
and eventually I had to agree to his stupid plan. Unsurprisingly, by day
two of his departure, I was a total disaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve become
accustomed to many things since marrying Husband. I no longer cook
food. I don’t know where any of our tools are. I’m not entirely
sure how my car works or how to put gas in it and I have no idea who my
landlord is. Basically, Husband does everything, I do nothing. It’s
kind of our thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Needless to
say, by week two without him here, I had completely unraveled. In
addition, I was having hellacious cramps, thought I was dying, and didn’t know
how to cope. It seemed like the best course of action would be to spend
literal hours looking up my symptoms on the internet, which I proceeded to
do. I came up with the following theory: I had just gone off birth
control because of Operation Baby and this was my first period. I was
likely having horrific cramps because I was no longer being protected by the
magic elixir that is birth control. Clearly I needed to be coddled — but
Husband was gone, so instead I bought a carton of cigarettes, a bag of Sriracha
chips and proceeded to watch documentaries about ballet all weekend. It
was amazing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately,
by the end of the weekend, I was feeling no better. I decided to stay
home from work on Monday because I still had a few episodes of Flesh and Bone
to plow through. So I did that and waited for Husband to call. I
knew once he heard I was dying, he would regret leaving me. <span lang="PT">As
usual, Husband was unimpressed, and instead of calling with concern he called
to poke holes in my medical theories.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
How are you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
Dying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
But your only symptom is cramps?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
It’s probably my ovaries shutting down. But don’t worry about me. I
know you have lots of <span lang="DE">“</span>work”
<span lang="PT">to do.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
It sounds like you just have your period.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
STOP TRYING TO MINIMIZE MY PAIN!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
Ok wife. Get some rest, we’ll talk later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="DE">Me: OH, CAUSE YOU</span>’RE SOOOOOO BUSY!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was
outraged. Clearly Husband didn’t know the first fucking thing about
menstrual cramps. Who the fuck did he think he was? As I sat there
on a Monday night, surrounded by heating pads, I was hit with a horrible
thought. <i>OH FUCK. I haven’t actually gotten my period yet.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was at
this point that I remembered that not being on birth control has several side
effects beyond cramping. I was horrified. I smoked a few cigarettes
and mulled over my options. I decided that waiting was not going to help
my situation. I had to take matters into my own hands. So I drove to
CVS and stole a pregnancy test. I know what you’re thinking, <span lang="DE">“</span>Alison, why would you steal
one? You have money, you’re married, it’s totally reasonable for you to
need to purchase a pregnancy test.” <span lang="DE">OLD HABITS DIE
HARD YOU SONS OF BITCHES!</span>
Seriously, I’ve stolen a lot of pregnancy tests in my day and they all came up
negative. I didn’t want to break my streak, so I just went with what I
know. STOP JUDGING ME!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pregnancy tests are fucking confusing. I was dealing with a
plus-or-minus scenario and wouldn’t you know the minus sign popped up
right away. I was thrilled! I knew my original diagnosis of
full-blown kidney failure was accurate. So I walked away to smoke a
cig. I had been through a lot and needed a break. I came back about
a half hour later and the negative pregnancy test caught my eye. On top
of the incredibly prominent minus sign was a very faint second line. I
suppose some would say this was resulting in a plus-sign situation, but it was
impossible to tell because the second line was very faint. I would have
asked my husband what he thought about the situation BUT I COULDN’<span lang="DE">T
BECAUSE HE HAD LEFT ME FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH!!!</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I called him
and tried to be reasonable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
Have you ever seen a positive pregnancy test?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
I’m just saying, do you have any experience with a faint second line?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
Are you pregnant?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW, THESE THINGS ARE GOD DAMN RIGGED!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
But you’re taking a pregnancy test right now?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
Yes!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
I thought you had your period.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="DE">Me: WELL MAYBE IF YOU WERE HERE,
YOU</span>’<span lang="DE">D KNOW
THAT I DON</span>’<span lang="RU">T!</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
So you lied?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
I didn’t know!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
You didn’t know that you didn’t have your period.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
STOP TWISTING MY WORDS!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
Are you pregnant?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me:
I don’t know. These tests are unreadable. It says it will either be
a plus or a minus but mine has a faint line. Who’s to say what shape it
is?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Husband:
Text me a picture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is what
it had come to. I was resigned to
texting pictures of a pregnancy test to my husband while chain-smoking in my
bathroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here’s the
thing: It doesn’t matter the faintness of the second line. If you
see a second line, you’ve been knocked up. So it seems that just a week
or so earlier, when I wrote a blog entitled <span lang="DE">“</span><a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/12/hi-im-not-pregnant_42.html" target="_blank">Hi, I’m not pregnant</a>,” I was, in fact, pregnant.
Yowsers, it’s amazing how often I’m completely wrong about things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the
record, I am not supposed to be telling people but I’m not too worried about
it. Blogs are a lot like diary entries — they're a private place for
me to sort through my thoughts that no one else will ever read, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had to wait
two more weeks until I could actually see Husband. He promised to never
leave me again and I promised to stop stealing. These are the kind of
life lessons I hope to teach my unborn child. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Holy shit,
this is happening. </span></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-67762236863896856562015-12-04T11:53:00.000-08:002015-12-04T11:53:10.136-08:00Hi, I'm Not Pregnant.<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I could not have anticipated the epic fail that was my most
recent blog post. I merely intended to display the horrors of potential
childbirth. I felt the content was fairly straightforward but committed a
major misstep when posting to my Facebook page with the title, “I suffer from a
disease called Impending Baby Syndrome.” I anticipated that people would
click the link to find out more. I did not anticipate a barrage of
congratulatory emails and texts from well-meaning people who are apparently
incapable of clicking on links or reading my blog. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one was more surprised by my fake pregnancy than my
mother who heard about it through the grapevine and called to find out why I
didn’t love her anymore and how I could have treated her so coldly.
Here’s the thing. I’m zero pregnant. And if I’m ever to
become pregnant, you can bet your ass I won’t be posting about it on Facebook.
I like to keep those details sequestered to this very private and
intimate blog. Unfortunately, no one seemed to be aware of my views on
Facebook announcements and now my mom literally hates me. Whoops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite being literally not pregnant, I have taken some
hefty strides in the “let’s get pregnant” department. As mentioned
previously, I have no experience with getting pregnant but lots of experience
with the rhythm method, the Nuvaring, and Plan B — the most effective of plans.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I thought it best to visit my gynecologist and get her on
board with Project Baby. I had heard lots of horror stories about women attempting
to get pregnant over the age of 30 and felt confident that all those scenarios
would surely work their ways into my life based on the fact that literally
nothing ever goes well for me. So I was suspicious but optimistic
because, at the end of the day, I’m slutty. And it seems like a slut
would have no problems procreating, right? I should be a doctor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background: white;">Needless
to say, my</span> gyno <span style="background: white;">was an epic shrew. I shouldn’t have been
surprised because I have never, in my entire life, had a good experience with a
doctor. They typically point out my drug use, or</span> <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2013/05/pants-are-my-nemesis.html"><span style="color: blue;">call me fat</span></a><span style="background: white;">, or reveal some sort of</span> <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-bitch-is-back.html"><span style="color: blue;">horrific disease</span></a> <span style="background: white;">that had gone unnoticed but was seemingly destroying me from the inside
out. Over the years I have seen</span> rheumatologists<span style="background: white;">, nutritionists, and terrifying</span> <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2012/03/hospital-final-diagnosis.html"><span style="color: blue;">young people doctors</span></a> <span style="background: white;">that probably couldn’t get served booze at a bar and
none of those interactions ever went well for me. So I had no reason to
believe the</span> Vag <span style="background: white;">Doctor visit
was going to be successful, but also had the wherewithal to understand that
this was the person who would be tasked with ripping a baby out of me, so I
felt I needed to get her on board.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was in a pretty good mood when I went to see the Vag
Doctor. Half the world already thought I was pregnant because of my
Facebook post, so I was feeling fairly optimistic. The general public
felt I was capable of carrying a baby, and surely that sort of support would
launch me into actual pregnancy. In addition, my gyno is located on Rodeo
Drive and you have to valet your car when you get there, so I was feeling like
a rich person. Rich people can probably have babies, right? I felt
that I had everything going for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
This perspective changed immediately upon meeting my adorable, blond gyno.
She is bright and bubbly and has the capacity to wholly insult you in a
way that initially feels like a compliment, so it takes a while to catch up.
As she started asking me questions, my optimism slowly waned and turned
into defensiveness and then finally...unbridled hostility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: Good morning!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Hello adorable, unobtrusive Vagina Doctor at this rich
person office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: Your blood pressure is on the high side. Have
you eaten anything today?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Just a pot of coffee and a pack of cigarettes.
LOL. I’m so quirky and avant garde, am I right?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: Are you aware that 80% of illnesses are precipitated
by smoking?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Doubt it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: It could greatly impact your chances of getting
pregnant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Well, if you would let me talk for a minute, I could
inform you that I’m slutty and likely to get pregnant at any moment. I’m
probably pregnant right now. Facebook thinks so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: You’re not. We checked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Rude.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things were not going well and let’s just take into
consideration that I was literally wrapped in what can best be described as
half a robe constructed out of toilet paper. There seemed to be no front
portion to this getup and I was taken aback because everything else about the
office conveyed a rich person facility and I was surprised to not be wrapped in
silk. I had been foiled again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: I need to let you know that you’re considered high
risk due to the fact that you’re over the age of 35.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: You mean…like I’m going to die?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: You may have a harder time getting pregnant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Don’t you have anything nice to say?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: Also, are you concerned that you’re overweight?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Again, with this shit. Since when did it become ok for
people to call me fat all the time? This is going to come as a shock but
when I’m naked, I truly think to myself, “Royer, you’ve done it again.
You. Are. Killing it.” Or I buy a new outfit from
Walgreens, get dressed and think, “Holy shit, you’ve pulled it off. You.
Look. Amazing!” And then I leave my house and meet a barrage
of whorebags that are adamant about my obesity. I literally cannot catch
a break. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think I suffer from body dysmorphism, but in the way that
I think I look awesome all the time and then a slew of medical professionals
and casting agents are like, “No, you definitely don’t.” It is highly
unreasonable and I think the Twat Doctor should have been a little more
sensitive and preferably more supportive. Whatever happened to, “Be who
you are! Love yourself! Accept your gut and embrace that part of
you!” This Beverly Hills Dickbag was not having any of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: Don’t you have to gain weight when you’re pregnant?
If anything, you should be commending me on diligently preparing myself.
(Opens half-robe, points to gut) Doesn’t this seem like it would be
a nice place to live?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: Close your half-robe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: No.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: Do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: If I was wearing a full, silk robe we wouldn’t be having
this problem. Your facility is a joke.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Uncomfortable staring contest
with me still holding open half-robe while maintaining fierce eye contact with
Vag Doctor)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, I closed half-robe but this bitch was not finished.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: I see from your chart that you have bamboo spine and
that your spine is fused where your pelvis meets your tailbone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: HOW DARE YOU! THAT’S NOT EVEN MY FAULT! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gyno: You’re probably going to have to have a C-Section.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: YOU’RE probably going to have to have a C-Section, you
inept Twat Doctor!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 4.5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was the best I could do. I was humiliated.
I had paid a hefty fee to once again be called fat by a medical
professional and obviously smoking is bad for me but I figure I’ll quit once I know
there’s actually another person being baked in my gut oven. But there
isn’t. And I remain not even kind of pregnant. I did not understand
that this process would be so harrowing. I can’t wait to be actually
pregnant so I can show that bitch who’s boss. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 4.5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 4.5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I imagine this is the beginning of what will likely be a long and
horrendous road. Potentially the only thing I’ve actually ever been good
at is unequivocal failure. I think about this a lot when I’m at my
law-firm job and everyone asks me how my acting career is coming along. I have
literally no experience with setting and achieving reasonable goals, but I do
have a lot of experience with feverishly chasing after things that seem
unbeatable. So fuck you womb, I’m comin’ for ya.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
</div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-44777188036724761362015-11-24T12:57:00.000-08:002015-11-24T12:57:46.896-08:00IBS<div class="Body">
Since I was a teenager, babies had only ever acquired a sliver of
my thoughts. It was a soft battle cry —
whispered instructions for how to not disappoint everyone around me. <i><span lang="DE">Don</span>’t get pregnant. Don’t get
pregnant. Don’t get pregnant. </i>I’m
like that — I take one simple idea like “Don’t get pregnant,” run with it for
most of my adult life, and never look back<span lang="DE">. </span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
So I was naturally disgusted when moments after getting engaged
people started in with, <span lang="DE">“</span>When
are you having a baby?” How. Dare.
You. In classic Royer form, I had
seemingly been doing one thing correctly my entire life only to find out I was
doing it wrong. What the fuck?! </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I suppose there has always been a part of me that just assumed I
would have children. Much like I’ve
always vaguely believed I would know how to respond if ever faced with imminent
danger. I’ve imagined that if there were an apocalypse, my adrenaline would start pumping and I would save the world, but
also I never really believed the apocalypse would happen in my lifetime. Yet here I am, married, and the apocalypse is
upon us. I tried to ignore it, but
wouldn’t ya know well-meaning bitches are on my jock…<span lang="DE">NON. STOP.</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><u>Well-Meaning Broad #1</u></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#1: That’s so exciting that you’re
getting married!!!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: That already happened.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#1: How great! Are you planning on having children?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: Unclear.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#1: (Face of shock and horror) Oh…how
old are you?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I get it. My eggs are deteriorating.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#1:
Well if you ever need a good fertility doctor, my sister had an
incredible experience with IVF.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: Is this a joke? I haven’t even tried to get pregnant yet and
you’re already calling me infertile?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><u>Well-Meaning Broad #2<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#2: So, how long have you been married
now?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: A week.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#2: That’s so great! Are you guys trying to have a baby?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: What?! No. We
literally just got married.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#2: But you want to have kids don’t you?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: It feels like I should be having
this conversation with Husband and not you.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#2: I’m just saying, it could take years
to get pregnant so you might want to start trying.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I’ll take that into consideration,
Jane from accounting. </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><u>Well-Meaning Broad #3<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#3: You still smoke?!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: OMG shut up!!!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#3: Don’t you want to have kids?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I didn’t realize people who smoked
couldn’t procreate. Are you familiar
with the 50s?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#3: I’m just saying, you might want to quit.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I’M just saying it seems like I can
deal with that when I go off birth control which I have not yet done, you
raging Cuntbag. And by the way, NICE JOB
CONGRATULATING ME ON MY WEDDING!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
#3: Oh right! Congrats!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Obviously, I literally hate everyone. I tried to stand my ground, but after a
plethora of bitches hounded me about my potential offspring I started to
panic. I then spent the next six weeks
after my wedding implementing something I’ve decided to call Impending Baby
Syndrome. It’s when you know a baby is about to happen so you do as many fun
things as humanly possible, because eventually your vagina will be out of order
due to a person crawling out of it and you won’t be able to have fun anymore —
unless that fun can include a human being hanging by their mouth from your jugs… blech.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I decided to start big. My
first Impending Baby Syndrome event would include Vegas. It happened pretty organically but goes
against all of my natural instincts.
Here’s the thing. I hate leaving
my house. When people invite me to
social functions, I take it as a personal affront. All I ever want to be doing is laying on my
couch, watching Real Housewives and convincing myself that I am moments away
from experiencing even a modicum of success.
BUT IT’S KIND OF HARD FOR ME TO DO THAT WHEN I HAVE TO GO TO YOUR
SURPRISE PARTY, CLAIRE!!!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Needless to say, Vegas does not conjure in me the kind of <span lang="DE">“</span>we’re gonna have the time of our
lives” scenario that it apparently does for other people. This is largely due to the fact that I don’t
drink anymore and previously, when in Vegas, I spent my time drinking liquor
out of plastic sippy cups depicting the Eiffel Tower and slutting myself out
for cocaine. So when a few of my
improviser friends suggested that I drive to Vegas to do a show, my first
instinct was <span lang="DE">“</span>absolutely
not.” But then the panic set in and I
thought to myself, <span lang="DE">“</span>Alison,
your husband is going to impregnate you. And you will never be able to go to Vegas again. This could be your last opportunity to
experience joy. Once you have a child,
you think you’ll really be able to travel to Vegas on a whim? GET OUT THERE AND DO SOMETHING!” So I went to Vegas. It was terrible.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Here’s the thing. I drove
to Vegas. Strike 1. I hate driving so why would I want to
relegate myself to an automobile for four hours? FOUR HOURS!
The only time I like road trips is when Husband is driving and I’m
sitting shotgun smoking and eating sandwiches.
Now THAT...sounds like a delight.
I decided to stay with my friend Rob which was excruciating because Rob
hates me. Strike 2. This is largely due to the fact that I once
agreed to meet him in Mexico and then was unable to go at the last minute
because I inadvertently sent a water barrel to <span lang="ES-TRAD"><a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2011/06/happy-birthday.html" target="_blank">Ecuador</a></span>. Finally, due to my <span lang="IT"><a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2012/03/hospital-part-1.html" target="_blank">spine fusion</a></span>, I rarely stay awake past
9 p.m. Strike 3. I think our show was at 10 p.m. It was horrific. They basically dragged my lifeless body
onstage and I pretended to have control over my motor functions. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Sadly, Impending Baby Syndrome never got better than the Vegas
trip. I spent weeks saying yes to
birthday parties I would ditch under normal circumstances, I went to Six Flags,
I agreed to watch someone’s cat. And
each time someone presented me with what literally sounded like the worst idea
in the world my inner-voice would whisper, <span lang="DE">“</span>Of course I’ll watch your cat!
When will I ever be able to spend time with a cat again?! Don’t cats eat children? This could be your last chance to enjoy a
feline! ALISON, GET OUT THERE AND DO
SOMETHING!”</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
By week six I was overwhelmed and exhausted. Impending Baby Syndrome had barely left me
any free time to think about myself and all the ways the world had fucked me
over. It was so depressing. I clearly needed some me time. The spinal Gods must have agreed with this
sentiment because before I knew it, I literally couldn’t move most of my
body. This is an unfortunate side effect
of an <span lang="IT"><a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2012/03/hospital-final-diagnosis.html" target="_blank">autoimmune disorder</a>.</span> Your body gives up on you when you’re just
trying to have a little fun before your vagina turns into a thoroughfare. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Husband was concerned, to say the least. He came home from work one day and found me
in a dark room, covers up to my chin, Ferris Bueller-style. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Husband: What happened to you?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: Impending Baby Syndrome.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Husband: What?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE">Me: WE</span>’RE GONNA HAVE A BABY SOON AND THEN MY LIFE IS GOING TO BE
OVER!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Husband: OMG, are you pregnant?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE">Me: NO! </span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Husband: I don’t understand.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I’m trying to do fun things before I
become filled with baby but I did too much and my <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-bitch-is-back.html" target="_blank"><span lang="IT">bamboo spine</span> </a>is acting up.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Husband: But you don’t like doing fun
things.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE">Me: DON</span>’T TELL ME WHAT I LIKE!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
But holy shit did Husband nail that one on the head. I DON’T like doing fun things! Why was I spending all my time trying to <span lang="DE">“</span>live my life” when I’ve literally
never done that? I couldn’t possibly be
missing out on anything because I hadn’t done a God damn thing in the 35 years
that I’ve been alive. My idea of a good
time is sleeping while football is on a T.V. somewhere. The craziest I’ve gotten in the last ten
years is keeping a library book for too long.
I had a piece of cheese the other day that had whiskey in it and I
legitimately thought I would get drunk so I spit it out. I’M NOT FUN!
I WAS SO RELIEVED!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
</div>
<div class="Body">
Here’s the deal. I can
tell Husband is trying to impregnate me.
I’m not stupid. But maybe I can
do that thing where they just put you to sleep and rip the baby out of
you. And I already almost exclusively
wear maternity clothes so that part won’t be all that different. And, from what I can tell, once you have a
baby, you are literally unable to leave the house which basically sounds like a
God damn dream. So after a month and a
half of Impending Baby Syndrome, I realized that having a baby sounds
great! I mean… obviously my baby’s not
going to like me. That’s a given. But it will be a justified reason to not have
to attend any social functions and from what I’ve been able to glean, my tits
will get bigger. I’m in.</div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-52145545627950563302015-11-10T11:35:00.000-08:002015-11-10T11:35:03.649-08:00Drunken Love<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
could not have predicted that I would marry Husband. I first met him at a party in a dilapidated
garage when I was 18-years-old. I had a
broken leg and a D.U.I and he was passed
out next to the keg. He looked like an <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2013/02/angel.html" target="_blank"><b>angel</b></a>. And thus began our torrid, drunken love
affair. When I look back at our 17-year
courtship, it seems pretty obvious that Husband has made a huge mistake. He had every reason to believe that I would
be a handful for the rest of our lives, yet he married me anyway. What an idiot. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve
always envisioned myself as being fiercely independent and capable. This is a farce. The reality is I’m an insatiable control
freak who will relentlessly grip the wheel while barreling towards a fiery
abyss. This is likely why blackout
drinking has always appealed to me. It’s
such a relief to have alcohol making all the decisions. I’ve often woken up and thought, </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Huh…I didn’t realize I wanted to go to
New Jersey to have sex with this intriguing coke dealer. Thank you alcohol. What a fun sabbatical.</span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">” </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This
type of Jekyll-and-Hyde behavior has been confusing for those around me. This is particularly true of Husband. He has repeatedly watched me declare my
strategy, set off to make my mark and then patiently followed me as I straggled
to the finish line — always falling short — and right when I throw my white
flag in the air, he’s there to pick up the pieces.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many years ago, when
Husband was merely Boyfriend, I proclaimed that New Year’s Eve was for pussies
and that I wasn’t having any of it. I
was probably 20 around this time and feeling very mature. I was also very into Boyfriend and thought
this would be a good time to impress his family during the holidays. His parents typically celebrated New Year’s
with their neighbors and lifelong family friends. I reasoned that this would be the perfect
time to ingratiate myself to Boyfriend’s family. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sadly,
I started having a few cocktails and inadvertently overshot the mark. I’m not sure what happened, but I got
accidentally shitcanned real quick. It
was later revealed to me that I was so drunk, Boyfriend’s father spent the
evening attempting to strap me to a barstool with his belt so that I wouldn’t
fall off, as I had previously been doing.
In retrospect, it was a chivalrous move but apparently I was hammered
and having none of it. I was screaming, </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“RELEASE ME! I AM
NOT YOUR PRISONER! UNBELT ME! UNBELT ME, YOU ANIMAL!</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">” Now I was blacked out during this exchange so
who’s to say what really happened, am I right?
But Boyfriend maintained that I was so inebriated I had to be taken
home. Now we were literally across the
street from Boyfriend’s house but he claims it took 20 minutes to walk me back
because I was a) unable to move my legs effectively, b) demanding that he return
me to the party, and c) simultaneously propositioning him for sex in the middle
of the street. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
hadn’t even made it to midnight! I was
mortified. This was not the delicate flower persona I was attempting to
portray. Instead I came across as a
drunken, sex-crazed lunatic. BUT IT WASN’T MY FAULT! Clearly someone had spiked my drink. In the morning, I assured everyone that that
was not typical of my behavior but his parents were not buying it. More upsettingly, they pointed to Boyfriend’s
birthday the year before. I hate when
people hold a grudge.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DA;">Ugh</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">…Boyfriend’s
21<sup>st</sup> birthday. To be fair, I
was well-intentioned but as usual, I got my ass handed to me by the universe
and have yet to be able to live it down.
Here’s the thing. I had spent
copious amounts of hours trying to create the perfect 21<sup>st</sup> birthday
celebration for Boyfriend. I was
19 years old and wanted him to understand the kind of thoughtful, organized
woman I would surely turn out to be. So
I bought two very expensive tickets to the Cubs game and drove us to the city
so that Boyfriend wouldn’t have to worry about drinking and driving. Now here’s the thing, I’m not a great
designated driver. Come to think of it,
I’m not a great driver. BUT I WAS DOING
MY BEST! Was I of legal drinking
age? Of course not. Is drinking and driving totally illegal
despite one’s age? Absolutely. But I wasn’t going to let Boyfriend have all
the fun after I had painstakingly planned the BEST BIRTHDAY EVER! (i.e. bought some cubs tickets and a pint of
Jack). Whatever. The point is I was an amazing girlfriend and
the rest of you are jealous. Ugh… </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
like to pride myself on finding joy in the little things in life. For instance, boyfriend and I had been dating
for two years (I was about to turn 20) and one of us was FINALLY LEGAL DRINKING
AGE!!! It was so exciting. Boyfriend was able to buy beers at the game
and I LOVE BEER! So I had some. And it was great. Did I potentially have too many</span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">? Who</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">’s
to say?! </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I’M NOT THE BEER POLICE. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I was enjoying a wonderful baseball game with
the Love of My Life, sorry if I didn’t count all the beers I had! I probably had 5. Or 6.
Definitely no more than 8. And
some Jack Daniels. And a joint. Oh shut up.
I HAVE A HIGH TOLERANCE, GET OFF MY BACK! </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After
the game, I got a little turned around on Lake Shore Drive and ended up in a
parking lot near the lake. Now this
didn’t strike me as an emergency but Boyfriend was furious. You know how men are… He was yelling and
shouting and I could not focus because he was being so judge-y! I couldn’t figure out what he was complaining
about and I had just dropped a cigarette in my lap so that was happening and he
was still yelling and I’m thinking, </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
PLANNED YOUR BIRTHDAY! IF ANYTHING YOU
SHOULD BE THANKING ME! SURE, I GOT A
LITTLE LOST BUT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FREAK OUT ABOUT IT! BE COOL BRO!
I’VE GOT THIS!” I then threw the
car into reverse, slammed on the gas, and furiously drove in the wrong
direction over a set of tire spikes thereby popping and deflating the two tires
on the right side of my car. Luckily, I had
hopped a curb with the left side of my car so those two tires had been
salvaged. YOU’RE WELCOME! Seriously though, what is the point of those
spikes? Like why is everyone so dead set
on me not driving backwards? I found the
whole thing to be wildly unreasonable and viewed it as a small setback. Boyfriend, however, was outraged and trying
to make some big point about how we had drugs on us and I was an underage drunk
driver. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Boyfriend: You are so
fucking stupid.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: Just relax. I’ve got this.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Boyfriend: You’ve got
this?! You are inebriated beyond reason
and just popped two of your tires.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: We both know I
should never be in charge of driving places but it’s your birthday so I was
trying to be nice.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Boyfriend: Nice?! You’re going to get us arrested!</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: Well then maybe you
shouldn’t have brought me so many beers at the game!</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Boyfriend: Oh, so now
I’m supposed to drink alone on my birthday?!</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">Me:
OBVIOUSLY NOT!!! I WOULD NEVER DO THAT
TO YOU! Wait</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">…do
you have any more of that Jack on you?</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">Boyfriend:
NO! WE ARE STRANDED ON LAKE SHORE DRIVE,
YOU ARE A DRUNKEN TEENAGER, I WOULD BET MY SWEET ASS YOU DON</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">’T
HAVE CAR INSURANCE AND NOW WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO CALL OUR PARENTS AND THEY’</span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">RE GOING TO THINK THAT I</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">’M THE BAD
INFLUENCE IN THIS SITUATION WHEN THE TRUTH IS YOU’RE AN IDIOT AND CAN’</span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">T HOLD YOUR LIQUOR!</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: Take it back.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It
was a low blow. It’s one thing to
embarrass me on the side of the road but how dare you suggest I can’t hold my
liquor. I was outraged. Eventually my parents came, took control of
the situation and seemingly… it all worked out? Maybe. Who knows? Honestly, I
can’t remember. But Husband brings this
story up constantly. I feel he’s trying
to admonish me but then I point out that he was dumb enough to marry me and
that usually shuts him up. I mean honestly, what was he thinking?</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To
be fair, Husband hasn’t always been on his best behavior. Each time he brings up the birthday story, I
remind him of a time he visited me after college. I was 22 at this point and living with three
men… obviously. Boyfriend came to the
city for a night on the town and we happened upon a local watering hole that
was selling 40-ounce martinis. Honestly,
I hate martinis but I love things sold in increments of 40-ounces so I was on board. As usual, I’m vague on the details. I remember ordering a drink and the rest is a
blur. I came to, however, in the middle
of the night when I heard Boyfriend rustling around my bedroom and I found it to be very irritating as I was
attempting to sleep LIKE A PRINCESS!</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
awoke to find him phantom pissing all over my bookshelf. For those of you who aren’t raging
alcoholics, phantom pissing is when you’re deep in a blackout, but your body
decides it’s time to pee. You then piss
all over whatever is nearest you but deep within, your drunken synapses
convince you that you’re in a bathroom.
I always like to take the high road when Boyfriend is the one acting
out. And when I say </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">high road” I mean that I like to berate
him for his foolishness and point out that he probably has an out-of-control
drinking problem.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: WHAT ARE YOU
DOING?!</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="NL" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: NL;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="NL" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: NL;">Boyfriend:
Iiiaaammm gonnna peeee heeeerreee.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You
will never know true love until you’ve been peed on by your boyfriend. True devotion and togetherness will only make
sense once you find yourself trying to move your blacked out boyfriend’s large
body while concurrently attempting to get him to stop pissing all over your belongings. And while you’re trying to get his pants up
and you’re holding his dick in an attempt to cut off the urine stream, you will
think, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” </span></div>
<br />
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In
retrospect, I suppose it was inevitable that we ended up together. Sure we’re both wildly immature, covered in
track marks and dangerously close to dying if per chance we ever decide to pick
up a drink again. But not many people
can say, </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My
wife once almost killed me in a car accident, embarrassed me in front of my
family and then I pissed all over her.”
True love knows no bounds.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-fareast-font-family: Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-30671056633250309542015-11-06T10:12:00.000-08:002015-11-06T10:12:41.884-08:00Wedding Disasters: Chicago<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
didn’t spend my childhood fantasizing about my wedding day. Instead, I spent my adolescence trying to get
as many chemicals up my nose as possible.
This type of behavior didn’t align with daydreams of meeting my husband
and being treated like a princess on my big day. Due to my debaucherous lifestyle, I instead
spent every waking hour envisioning my funeral.
It was gonna be great. I was
gonna play The Beatles White Album and you were all going to feel so horribly
about the way you had treated me.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In
a cruel twist of fate, I got sober instead and decided to live. Since my formative years had been spent
racking up D.U.I.s and attempting to catalog my STDs, marriage still hadn’t
piqued my interest. My time was split
between relentlessly chain-smoking and trying not to drink. That was how I spent the bulk of my
twenties. Ultimately, I ended up
marrying my junkie ex-boyfriend and he too could not have been less interested
in the minutia of our wedding day. We
were so happy to be alive, we just wanted to make it legally binding before one
of us relapsed or died. It was super
romantic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Since
I had “insisted” on having a “<a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/10/wedding-disasters-venue.html" target="_blank">destination wedding</a>,” I was forced to also
have a Chicago Wedding, Chicago Shower, and Chicago Bachelorette party. This was in addition to LA Wedding and LA
Shower. The entire thing was ludicrous
but, inevitably, if weddings don’t interest you, you will be bombarded with
wedding hysteria.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Despite
the knowledge that Chicago Wedding was on the horizon, I had paid no attention. Aside from agreeing to
physically be in Chicago that weekend, I had offered no additional help or
guidance. I figured our parents could
run the show and that I would just show up and eat sausage. LA Wedding = Cheeseburgers. Chicago Wedding = Sausage. Beyond that, I cared zero about what was
going to transpire.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But
once again, I got hoodwinked by my family.
I say “small wedding,” they invite 250 people; I say “casual BBQ,” they
hire a staff of 17; I say “I don’t drink alcohol anymore so none of this is fun
for me,” they concoct some sort of magical boozy lemonade drink that I cannot
partake in but turned out to be the centerpiece of Chicago Wedding. </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It
wasn’t until the week before Chicago Wedding that it occurred to me that I’d
need an outfit. <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/10/wedding-disasters-dress.html" target="_blank">Los Angeles Wedding Dress </a>did not go well and I ended up looking pregnant. I had a new strategy this time. I’m not skinny BUT I have a huge ass and
monstrous breasts which people seem to be into. For Chicago Wedding, I figured I’d just work
with what the Good Lord had given me. So
I bought a dress that basically made me look like street walker. Husband was very concerned by this
approach. I had a mini-fashion show
prior to leaving for Chicago and he was basically horrified:</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: So what do you
think?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Husband: Um…</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: OMG, you think I
look fat.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Husband: Nooo…I didn’t
say that.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: Do you not want to
get married anymore because I’m unattractive?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Husband: We already got
married. This is just a reception.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: So you hate me?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Husband: Alison, I don’t
hate you but that dress is too short. As
a matter of fact, all your dresses are too short.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: ARE YOU SAYING I
LOOK SLUTTY?!</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Husband: You literally
always do. I don’t even know what to say
anymore.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But
it was too late. That was the dress I
bought and we were leaving the next day.
At this point, I started to panic.
Perhaps I should have put some thought into Chicago Wedding and how it
was all going to shake out. I started
thinking about all the things I should have done. For starters, my mother-in-law was hosting
this fiasco and I probably should have contemplated thanking her. I immediately called actual mother and put
her on the case.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: I never bought
anything for mother #2. Is that bad?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mimi: Why don’t we get
her some flowers?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: I assume </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">we” means </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">you.”</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: IT;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="IT" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: IT;">Mimi:
Fine. I</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">’ll put something
together and you can bring it. What kind
of arrangement would you like?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: I don’t care. I trust your judgment. See ya tomorrow.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Note
to self: Do not let Mimi go rogue when it comes to flower arrangements. My plan upon arriving in Chicago was to get
my hair and makeup done and then pick up the flowers Mimi had
orchestrated. Needless to say, what
should have been a simple task resulted in a full-blown suburban meltdown.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For
starters, I don’t pretend to know where one should get their wedding styling
done in the suburbs so, again, I left this to Mimi. I was slightly concerned when I walked into
the </span><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">“</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: FR;">salon</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">” and all the styling stations had
been fashioned with tool boxes. It
looked like this had previously been an auto-shop dedicated to NASCAR and that
these broads had just taken over and opened their salon “as-is.” In addition, there was a lot of suburban
fashion happening in that place. The
trend in Los Angeles right now is to dye your hair gray-purple — grayple, if you
will. While we can all agree that
grayple is ridiculous, at least it’s fashionable </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">—</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> to some degree.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">None of these suburban broads had heard of
the grayple trend that was sweeping the nation.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">
</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">They were still locked into the Kate Plus Eight buzzcut and blonde
highlights.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Clearly, I’m not attractive
— but I knew enough to know you should not mirror yourself after a woman who
had a small army rip their way through her vagina.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">No one can think rationally after such an
event and she did not strike me as the fashion idol everyone in the suburbs
found her to be.</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After
spending two hours in the salon, I had a headache from the 500 bobby pins that
were used to fasten what was essentially a Toddlers-and-Tiaras-style bun to
the side of my head. I was miserable. It wasn’t until I arrived at Chicago Wedding
that I realized how dire this situation actually was. My friend Laura pointed out that I looked as
though I was about to enter the Ice Capades.
She was right. Instead of looking
like Kate Plus Eight, I looked like Nancy Kerrigan, and quite frankly my heels
were too high and I was wobbling so I was channeling Nancy post Knee-Gate. It was regrettable.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It
was in this state that I walked into our local grocery store, Jewel, to pick up
the flowers real mom had ordered for mom #2.
I was already suspicious since Mimi had chosen to order flowers from the
same organization that brings us corn dogs as opposed to ordering flowers from, say, an actual flower shop. But it was
too late. I walked in and was presented
with what can best be described as an ornate funeral arrangement. I was horrified. I slowly toppled out of the grocery store,
leaving the funeral flowers where they were and headed home to meet up with my friend Morgan. She took one look at me and understood that I
had reached full levels of mania.
Chicago Wedding was not going well.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: I’m falling
apart. We need to cancel Chicago
Wedding.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Morgan: Just relax. What is happening?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: I can’t feel any
portion of my skull and Mimi bought funeral flowers. </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Morgan: I’m sure they’re
fine. Is that what you’re wearing?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: YES, IT’S WHAT I’M
WEARING, MORGAN! Oh God, how bad is
it? Do I look slutty?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Morgan: I mean…no more
than usual.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: MORGAN!</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Morgan: What?! It’s sort of your thing. Just embrace it.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: I hate everyone.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: DE;">Morgan:
Listen, we</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">’re going to go back to Jewel, pick up the funeral
flowers, go to Chicago Wedding and have a great time. You look adorable. Get in the car. We can smoke there.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Those
were the sweet words I needed to hear.
Morgan took control from there. And
just as I was beginning to feel like everything was going to work out, I
entered Chicago Wedding and was faced with the realization that I am always
right and that I have every reason to believe that nothing in my life will ever
work out.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Here’s
the thing. I shouldn’t have been wearing
a short dress nor are hooker heels an appropriate choice for anything beyond
sex for money. But Morgan had made me
feel so confident that I completely forgot what was happening. She had at least talked me into wearing
underwear instead of a thong and I will be forever grateful. Because as I was greeting my guests, I
embraced my friend Charlie for a big hug and realized that something was
pulling at my dress. Of course Charlie
didn’t know what was happening, thought I was trying to get out of hugging him
and therefore just held me tighter so at this point I was basically in a choke
hold. I had a hard time escaping his
grip and when I did, I turned to see my brother-in-law behind me.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: What the fuck are
you doing?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Brother-In-Law: What are
you talking about?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: Someone just lifted
my dress.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Brother-In-Law: Alison,
you’re barely wearing a dress, I’m sure it was the wind.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 39.25pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me: HOW DARE YOU!</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At
this point, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlie’s son, smiling like the
devil and grasping a handful of leaves.
Apparently, because he’s a small child and therefore a literal monster,
he had seen my ice-skating dress, walked up behind me, lifted my dress from
behind, and tried to stick a handful of leaves in my underwear thereby having
me flash the entire Chicago Wedding. It
was the equivalent of wrapping dollar bills into a stripper’s G-string and
who could blame him? Despite my attempts
to look quasi-attractive, I once again looked like a hooker. And clearly I couldn</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-hansi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">’</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">t spank the future sex-offender
toddler because then I</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-hansi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">’</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">d
be giving him what he wanted. Sicko. </span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Ultimately,
everyone at Chicago Wedding saw my ass.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">
</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">This is not the type of grace I was hoping to exude, but who was I
kidding.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Even when I spend every waking
moment trying to be appropriate and demure, I end up with an ass full of leaves
and unwanted propositions for sex — it’s who I am.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It took everything in me not to start
pounding the lemonade concoction and eventually I just changed into
pajamas.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I had tried and failed to be
wedding appropriate.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">At the end of the
night, my family spent over an hour getting all those God damn bobby pins out
of my hair.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I slept like a motherfucking
baby that night.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It could have been
because my blood was finally circulating after removing all of those pins; or because I had just made the most I’ll ever make as a stripper; or
because I had found my One True Love and married the shit out of him.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But mostly I slept a beautiful, restful slumber
because all wedding festivities, all trying on of dresses, all vendor hiring
and food ordering and pining after alcohol-infused lemonade concoctions was
finally… over.</span></div>
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Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-75892014861500526662015-10-29T12:10:00.000-07:002015-10-29T12:10:21.484-07:00Wedding Disasters: Venue<div class="MsoNormal">
In a shocking turn of events, a person asked me to marry
him. What followed was horrific. I was bombarded with the lineage of wedding
tradition that has been suffocating us for years. I attempted to break the mold and was
thwarted at every step.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone lied to me about weddings. I repeatedly heard people say, “<i>Just remember. This is your day. It doesn’t matter what anybody else wants.</i>” Well it turns out it <i>does </i>matter what everybody else wants…this is particularly true
when it comes to Mimi Royer, the matriarch of my family. Mimi was not impressed with my wedding plans —
nor were her sisters. Honestly, they
tried to kill me. I will never forget the first conversation I
had about my impending nuptials and how it was all going to shake out. I was with Mimi and the brood when I first
broached the concept I was envisioning:</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: So I’m thinking we rent a house,
throw a pool party and serve cheeseburgers.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Mom: *silently sobbing*</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Aunt #1: Alison, do you really think
people will fly 2,000 miles to eat a cheeseburger?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I can’t think of a better reason to
fly 2,000 miles.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Aunt #2: But where’s everyone going to
sit?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I mean…it feels like we could rent
chairs?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Mom: And where will this <span lang="DE">“</span>pool party” take place?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="ES-TRAD">Me: Los Angeles?</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Aunt #1: So you’re having a destination
wedding?!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE">Me: Um</span>…no. Cause I mean…I
live here.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Aunt #2: Where are the tables going to
go?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: Tables are stupid. I want nothing to do with them.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Mom: But then where will we put the
flower arrangements?!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: Not having any.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Aunt #1: So you’re throwing a
white-trash BBQ?!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: YES! </div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Mom: *silently sobbing*</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Needless to say, they were not on board. They felt so strongly, in fact, that they
tricked me into touring a wedding venue in the suburbs of Chicago, where I grew
up. This ended with me having a
full-blown panic attack. Every time I see a round table, I have a meltdown. I
actually think I suffer some type of P.T.S.D. where weddings are concerned
because 10-top tables and name cards give me hives. Swear. After the suburban-wedding-venue-tour, it was obvious that a traditional wedding venue was not
going to work. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I wanted my parents to be happy, but when I started conjuring
potential wedding locales, I tried to be inspired by all the things I like to
do, but all I could come up with was sleeping —
so I decided to go with that. Ultimately,
I did end up renting a house in Los Angeles with a pool and a lot of pool
furniture… i.e. lounge chairs…<span lang="IT"> i.e.
sleeping. It felt like the best decision</span>
— but like most wedding decisions, it was wildly expensive and at the end of
the day, literally no one was happy.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
The truth is if you honestly attempt to do what <i>you</i> want
for your wedding, you will spend all of your extra time convincing The Royers
that everybody likes burger trucks and that chairs aren’t actually all that
important. And when you have the gall to
point out that throwing a wedding in the city where you live does not actually
constitute a <span lang="DE">“</span>destination
wedding” their brains will literally explode and they will finally know,
unequivocally, that sending you to a liberal arts college was a terrible idea.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Despite my best efforts, many things did not go well on my
wedding day. I tried to keep these
issues hidden from my parents. I
didn’t want Mimi and Jim having the satisfaction. Certainly, I wanted them to be happy but in the way that, at the end of the day, they would profusely apologize
for being so short-sighted and then repeatedly tell me how smart I am.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Basically, I was bamboozled by a rich person. Motherfuckers get me every time. I rented the house from a woman who seemed
very nice, initially. I can see now that
she was being very nice because she wanted to take all my money… which she, in fact,
did. She was real cagey leading up to
the wedding. I had literally only seen
the house once or twice and each time she rushed me through the venue, told me
everything would be wonderful and then kicked me out. This trend continued when
we finally checked in on the day of the wedding. This bitch had her house security system
decked out Fort Knox style but seemed to have no idea how to use literally
anything. My friend, Heather, and I were
following her around the house trying to keep up, to no avail.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span lang="DE">Rich Bitch: Mmmmkkkk</span>…if you want to open a window, just type 47839
into this box or the police will come.
All the doors are on the same system.
In order to open the big glass door, you just push this button, turn the
knob, unlock the bottom lock, push, pull, unlock the 2<span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;">nd </span>window,
push, and then re-lock into the ground.
If you need the air conditioning turned down, just page 736 to this
number and if the pool overflows, just go into the garage (there’s a lock for
the garage outside under the tree) and then type 98456 into the system near the
garage door. OKGREATHAVEFUNBYE!!!</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I mean…obviously I wasn’t listening to any of that because I was
focused on how my parents weren’t going to be able to enter the building
without the police being summoned. It
was a disaster. I was literally trapped
in that godforsaken house and sure as shit I found myself needing the garage
key. I spent the majority of my wedding
morning looking under every tree on the property. I never found it and the pool
overflowed. It was a great start to the
day. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Rich Bitch was relentless on the day of the wedding. She kept stopping by because she <span lang="DE">“</span>forgot” something. I’m pretty sure that’s not how house rentals
work, but I was busy trying to miraculously get skinny in the five hours I had
before walking down the aisle. The Rich
Bitch stop-bys did not prevent her from additionally calling and texting me
with <span lang="DE">“</span>helpful reminders”
throughout my wedding day. It seems
unreasonable that she was so dead-set on contacting me directly seeing as she
had assigned us a Site Representative, who was tasked with being on hand to <span lang="DE">“</span>fulfill any and all last minute
items which might need tending to.” </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
What a fucking crock of bullshit that turned out to be. The Site Representative turned out to be Rich
Bitch’s bumbling 21-year-old son who parked himself on the couch and watched
Netflix on his laptop the entire time. I
fucking hate the youth.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="DE">Me: Um</span>…<span lang="DE">Stu?</span></div>
<div class="Body" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Stu: (Removes excessively large
headphones) Yea?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Me: I’m so sorry to bother you. You see, I’m in the middle of a wedding and
there are 150 people here. I just heard
the toilet is broken. Do you happen to
have a plunger?</div>
<div class="Body">
</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Stu: (Nonchalantly shrugs) Don’t know,
bro. (Replaces headphones)</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
This was the motherfucking coup de grâce. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I AM NOT YOUR BRO, YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU TRYING TO EMBARRASS ME
IN FRONT OF MY PARENTS, STU?! I AM
TRYING TO SHOW THEM THAT A WEDDING AT A HOUSE IS A REASONABLE OPTION, AND YOU
ARE JUST SITTING THERE LIKE THE OVERPRIVILEGED MILLENNIAL THAT YOU ARE. HELP ME THE FUCK
OUT, COULD YA, STU? I HAVEN’<span lang="DE">T HAD A DRINK IN 10 YEARS, MY ENTIRE SPINE
IS FUSING TOGETHER, MY PARENTS LITERALLY HATE ME, AND YOU ARE SITTING THERE
LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING CHUMP WHILE A TOILET IS CLOGGED AT MY FUCKING DESTINATION
WEDDING! DO YOU GET THAT, STU?! A PERSON MARRIED ME, AND YOU ARE RUINING IT!!!</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="DE"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
Eventually, I had to be pulled away from Stu by my friend Amanda
because I was about to throttle him. All
of my life experiences to date had culminated in the moment that most perfectly
represents my miserable existence. I
spent the next 15 minutes, in full wedding regalia, unclogging a toilet,
because the God damn youth couldn’t get their ass off the sofa to help a bitch
out.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I suppose, in retrospect, I can see why my parents were
alarmed. I’m young(ish), irreverent,
unwilling to help anyone with anything at anytime and completely self-obsessed. But I am 35 God damnit and needed to pave my
own path. Was it a disaster? Absolutely.
Do my parents continue to always be right? Yes.
Do I prefer being stalked by a Rich Bitch and unclogging a toilet to
eating cold chicken at a 10-top table in a suburban barn? You bet your motherfucking ass I do.</div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-51535815596473637032015-10-21T16:59:00.000-07:002015-10-21T16:59:51.498-07:00Wedding Disasters: Dress<div class="Body">
When it comes to weddings, basic brides are consumed by one thing
and one thing only – The Dress. The
thing that’s weird about that is can you remember the last wedding dress that
made a major impact on you?</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b>Basic Bride #1</b>: OMG, I got the
most AMAZING dress!<br />
<b>Me:</b> Oh, cool. What does it look
like?<br />
<b>Basic Bride:</b> Well it’s white and it’s long and it’s strapless and it
cost $2,500.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b>Basic Bride #2:</b> My dress is
fantastic.<br />
<b>Me:</b> Is it white?<br />
<b>Basic Bride #2:</b> Yes! And it’s
long and it’s strapless. It cost $7,500.</div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b>Basic Bride #3:</b> Wait until you
see the dress.<br />
<b>Me:</b> Did it cost more than $7,500?<br />
<b>Basic Bride #3:</b> Obviously, but it’s incredible. It super long and white and instead of
putting straps on it…<br />
<b>Me:</b> <i>*puts gun in mouth, pulls trigger*</i></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="Body">
First they get a long, white, strapless dress and then they spend
the next several months rejecting all food and actively attending bridal
boot-camp classes. None of this was for
me. I wanted a short dress and I wanted to spend zero dollars. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Now, I know what you’re thinking, <span lang="DE">“</span><i>You wanted a cheap dress cause you’re poor and a short dress
cause you’re slutty</i>.” Alright, just
take it easy! Though, sadly, you’re not
wrong. Luckily, I immediately found what
I was looking for at the impeccable dress boutique, <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/02/bridezilla.html" target="_blank">David’<span lang="PT">s Bridal</span></a>. It seems they cater to destitute
streetwalkers, so I’m clearly their target market. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Also, I had no unrealistic desires to become magically skinny
before I walked down the aisle. I knew the
real star of my wedding would be cheeseburgers and that no one could honestly
expect me to be more attractive than usual.
I wasn’t going to fall into the anorexic shame-spiral the rest of
America had fallen into. THIS IS MY
BODY! DEAL WITH IT! </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Unfortunately, after the <a href="http://thisisgoingtowork.blogspot.com/2015/10/wedding-disasters-food.html" target="_blank">food</a> debacle, I was literally
falling apart and could no longer tell what was important. My defenses were down and I really started to
let these women get to me. Men, you may
not know this but here’s how a typical conversation goes with another woman if
you’re an engaged lady. I want it to
be noted that I didn’t even wear my engagement ring on my left hand because I
was trying to ward off all Wedding Maniacs <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">–</span> but those sons-of-bitches will
find you.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Wedding Maniac:</b> That’s so great that you’re getting
married!!! <br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b> Ok<br />
<b><span lang="DE"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b><span lang="DE">WM:</span></b> George and I had
the best wedding. It was at a children’s
museum. I’ll send you the number!<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b> No thank you.<br />
<b><span lang="DE"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b><span lang="DE">WM:</span></b> How much weight
are you trying to lose?<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b> Excuse me?<br />
<b><span lang="DE"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b><span lang="DE">WM:</span></b> For your
wedding. I remember only eating almonds
and oranges the six weeks before my big day.
</div>
<div class="Body">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b> Is that a thing?<br />
<b><span lang="DE"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b><span lang="DE">WM:</span></b> LOL. Hang in there. I’m sure your dress will fit!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Now here’s the thing. I
bought my dress in December, my wedding was in July. I tried it on prior to purchasing it, so I
just assumed it had fit me. What I
didn’t realize is that when brides say, <span lang="DE">“</span>fit” they mean that the dress hangs off your skeletal frame and you
look like you might faint at any minute.
By the 500<sup>th</sup> time a Wedding Maniac asked if my dress fit, I
started to panic and think that maybe I should have taken it out of the David’s
Bridal bag instead of leaving it in my trunk for months on end. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Unfortunately, I didn’t have this epiphany until two weeks before
my wedding <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">–</span> even though I was constantly being called fat. And shocker of all
shocks, that fucking thing didn’t fit me under any circumstances. And I’m not talking about the Wedding Maniac
version of <span lang="DE">“</span>fit” wherein
you’re five pounds away from your baby weight and you can’t let go of your
husband’s hand during the ceremony otherwise you’ll fall over. I’m talking
about the fat person version of <span lang="DE">“</span>fit”
wherein that motherfucking thing wouldn’<span lang="NL">t even zip up. Oops.</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="NL"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
I was panicked. I knew
that no one in the world had ever suffered more than I was suffering in that
moment. I called my friend Jonas and
informed him of this code-red situation.
He reminded me that his father and sister had just passed away within
six months of each other and I wondered why I couldn’t catch a motherfucking
break. It was clear Jonas would only be
able to help with funeral problems and this was a wedding crisis so I hung up
with him and called my friend Dana over, ‘cause I knew she would be brutally
honest and that no one she loved had died recently. I tried the dress on for her and she was not
impressed:</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Dana:</b> Are you concerned that your dress doesn’t fit?</div>
<div class="Body">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b> I forgot to lose weight.<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Dana:</b> Didn’t your tailor mention anything when you went to get it
altered?<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b> Shit.<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Dana:</b> You forgot to get it altered?<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b><span lang="IT"> I CAN</span>’T DO
EVERYTHING, DANA! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO
KNOW YOU’<span lang="DE">RE SUPPOSED TO ALTER YOUR
DRESS?! I THOUGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO LOSE
WEIGHT!</span><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Dana:</b> I mean… that would have been fine, but you didn’t even do that.<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b> Listen, you are my best friend.
Be honest with me. Does this
dress kind of fit?<br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Dana:</b><span lang="IT"> No.</span><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Me:</b><span lang="RU"> DANA!</span><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="Body">
<b>Dana:</b> Alright, get yourself together.
I’m taking you to Nordstrom and you’re going to learn about Spanx.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></div>
<div class="Body">
Fucking Spanx. I ended up
paying $100 for nude underwear shorts that prevented me from breathing.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Here’s the deal. I looked
fat at my wedding. And more
embarrassingly, my friend Lionel found my dress unattended at one point, tried
it on, and looked better than anything I could have possibly imagined. I have attached photographic evidence <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">– </span>so
feel free to decide who wore it best. At
the end of the day, I didn’t even care anymore.
I had bigger fish to fry with my horrible venue choice. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
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<div class="Body">
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Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-38646269272129103532015-10-12T09:50:00.000-07:002015-10-12T09:50:38.764-07:00Wedding Disasters: Food<div class="Body">
I<span lang="FR">’</span>ve heard many
a bitch complain about her wedding over the years.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> I<span lang="FR">’</span>ve
had to endure several lunches where I was forced to hear the babblings of some
mother-daughter standoff involving the color of flowers, the number of guests,
or the type of cake, and all I could ever think was, “um…most people don<span lang="FR">’</span>t have jobs so this isn<span lang="FR">’</span>t striking me as an
emergency.” Now you can<span lang="FR">’</span>t say something like that to a bride
without being murdered. But I knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my wedding would be different.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I had categorized my wedding into three important parts: Food,
Dress, Venue. I hurried along to make
sure all of these categories where underway and organized. I don<span lang="FR">’</span>t want to blow anyone<span lang="FR">’</span>s
mind or anything, but it was a fairly simple process. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Food. That seemed like the
place to start. Wedding food is garbage
and I wanted mine to be edible. I don<span lang="FR">’</span>t know a lot about appropriate
wedding cuisine, but I do know a lot about cheeseburgers, so my first order of
business was to rent an Umami Burger truck, because trucks are cool and burgers
are delicious. Fuck this shit, weddings
are eeeeaaaassssy.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I felt
vindicated. Weddings <i>are</i>
stupid. I knew it! After hearing bride after bride complain
about wedding minutia and thinking, “God, this just does not sound hard. What are these shrews so stressed about?” I
could finally revel in the fact that I had done the “impossible wedding
planning” and, shockingly, IT WASN<span lang="FR">’</span>T
THAT HARD! I was elated. And just as I was patting myself on the back,
Umami Burger called.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Those. Mother. Fuckers. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Umami Burger: Hello Alison?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Yep.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
UB: Hey!
It<span lang="FR">’</span>s your pals over at
Umami Burger! Bad news, hun. We actually decided to disband our food
trucks effective immediately. You<span lang="FR">’</span>ll see the credit to your account
within 48 hours. Good luck with your
wedding though! I<span lang="FR">’</span>m sure it<span lang="FR">’</span>ll be great.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: *silent sobbing*</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
UB: Alison?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: *loud sobbing*</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
UB: Are you ok?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: YOU. RUINED. MY. WEDDING!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Seriously, I said that. I
cried and told a burger place that they had ruined my wedding. I was bereft.
I didn<span lang="FR">’</span>t give a fuck
who had jobs or not, or who was being physically tormented by their captor, or
who was facing an unwanted pregnancy.
This felt like a motherfucking emergency. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I tried to keep myself together.
Sure, I didn<span lang="FR">’</span>t have a
burger truck, but I still had a bunch of catered food for the rehearsal dinner,
wedding appetizers and brunch the next day.
My parents were just about to roll into town for a tasting, so I tried to
focus on the food I actually had. The tasting was a huge success! At least I had that going for me. We finalized the menu and I emailed the
caterer. I received the following
message:</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
“After 60 years in business, Powell<span lang="FR">’</span>s has decided to close its doors. As of yesterday, I have opted to retire. Thank you all for your support over the years
and we wish you the best of luck on your future endeavors.”</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I figured this was a joke.
I had just talked to this guy the day before to set up the tasting. And over the last several weeks, I had
established what I believed to be a pretty tight relationship with Mr. Powell so I felt confident that he wouldn<span lang="FR">’</span>t
let me down. I would sort this all out
with him and everything would be fine.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: Hello?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Mr. Powell! Hey, I just emailed you our final order and I
got the weirdest message.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: Yea, I retired. After I get off the phone with you, I<span lang="FR">’</span>m going to disconnect this line.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: M<span lang="FR">’</span>kkk it<span lang="FR">’</span>s just
that you literally delivered a bunch of food to us today and we liked it.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: Great. Have a good day!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: No wait! I was just wondering, do you intend to follow
through with your existing orders?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: I<span lang="FR">’</span>d like to but I<span lang="FR">’</span>m
retired now.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Right, but you weren<span lang="FR">’t yesterday. I just don’</span>t understand how this
happened so quickly.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: Business, am I right?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: That doesn<span lang="FR">’</span><span lang="NL">t even make sense.</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: Ok great. Have a good day!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: WAIT! MY PARENTS FLEW HERE TO HELP ME WITH MY
WEDDING. THE ONLY THING I HAVE TO SHOW
FOR MYSELF IS YOUR STUPID FOOD. THEY
FINALLY LIKED SOMETHING AND I DEMAND THAT YOU GIVE IT TO ME!!!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: Listen, here<span lang="FR">’</span>s what I can do for you. Why don<span lang="FR">’</span>t I email you all the things that you ordered and then you can have
a guideline for what you want to pick.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Oh.
Ok. So you<span lang="FR">’</span>ll still do the catering for my wedding.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Mr. P: What? No. I<span lang="FR">’</span>m retired.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: WHY THE FUCK WOULD I NEED TO KNOW
WHAT I ORDERED THEN, YOU FUCKING LUNATIC?!
YOU RUINED MY WEDDING!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I can<span lang="FR">’</span>t. I want to even but I literally can<span lang="FR">’</span>t.
At this point, I had no food for my wedding. One of my friends pointed out that he had ALS and couldn<span lang="FR">’</span>t drive or work and I wondered why
he was making this about him. COOL STORY
RONNIE, BUT I DON<span lang="FR">’</span>T HAVE ANY
FOOD FOR MY WEDDING!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I started calling everyone I knew and letting them know how hard
my life was. They all said they would
pray for me. #blessed </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
I was finally able to find yet another burger truck. This one was called Farmer's Belly. Based on the name, I was concerned that their
food wouldn<span lang="FR">’</span>t have enough fat
and calories but desperate times called for desperate measures. I organized a tasting and started to get
excited about the food again. They were
going to bring three different types of burgers and three different types of
fries. I even ordered a vegetarian
option because I care deeply about other people. One of their fry choices was pesto fries and
that excited me to no end. Things were
looking up!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
On the day of my wedding, I was elated. I was so happy to be with all my friends and
family and was feeling triumphant since I had pulled it all together. People are so nice to you if you have your
makeup professionally done and put on a white dress so I wasn<span lang="FR">’</span>t that surprised when my friend, Richie,
asked if I<span lang="FR">’</span>d like something
to eat. “Yes! Would you please get me some pesto
fries?!” Everything was going
wonderfully. I continued to greet my
guests and mingle, and then Richie returned with some piece-of-shit french
fries that I was horrified to see in my presence.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: What are these?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Richie: French fries</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Where are the pesto fries?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Richie: Oh, they don<span lang="FR">’</span>t have any.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Holy shit those motherfuckers screwed me. I<span lang="FR">’</span>m
not stupid, so I had made binders which included all of my email correspondence
with each vendor as well as all of my final orders and receipts. I walked away from all the guests, raced into
the dressing room, grabbed my binder and went storming out to the burger truck
with fire in my eyes.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Luckily I was waylaid by my maid-of-honor, Jenny.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny: Alison?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Yes?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny: What are you doing?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: They didn<span lang="FR">’</span>t bring pesto fries.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny: Alison, ya know what no one wants
to see?</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Regular fries.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny: Noooooo, an angry bride running
with a binder over her head.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Oh.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny: I will take care of it. People are having fun. No one cares about the food anyway.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Take it back.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny: Don<span lang="FR">’</span>t you have other things to worry
about? You<span lang="FR">’</span>re married now! How does it feel?!</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Me: Empty and void of pesto.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny: You<span lang="FR">’</span>re awful.</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Jenny eventually climbed onto the burger truck to see what the fuck
the problem was. Turns out that even
after a tasting and a specifically placed order, Farmer's Belly just decided to
bring whatever the fuck they wanted. I
emailed them a few days later and pointed out that they hadn<span lang="FR">’</span>t brought any of the right food. They basically told me how lucky I was to
have food in the first place and honestly, after what I had been through, they
weren<span lang="FR">’</span>t wrong. I asked for as much money back as they could
give me and then opted to never eat from anywhere that was associated with a
farmer ever again. That has proven to be
difficult….obviously. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
Weddings are terrible. If
I wanted to have a dick shoved up my ass by every stranger I encountered, I
would have stayed single. And this was
just the food element of the God damn forsaken wedding festivities. Dress and venue were equally horrible. Ugh…the dress. What a nightmare that turned out to be. </div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="Body">
</div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-36201274756477214052015-02-09T12:21:00.000-08:002015-02-09T12:27:23.981-08:00Bridezilla<div class="MsoNormal">
As previously mentioned, I’m getting married and it is
unequivocally the worst life experience I have ever faced. It’s one of those horrible things wherein
literal strangers feel justified in sharing unsolicited advice. Apparently there are a lot of rules where
weddings are concerned that I had not previously been privy to. A few examples:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>EXAMPLE 1</u><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"><i><br /></i></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Horrible
Person: So where are you going to register?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: Oh I’m not going to do that.
We don’t need anything.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>HP: Oh but you have to register.
People like to have options.<u><o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, <i>I’m</i>
sorry. I didn’t realize that since I’ve
decided to spend the rest of my life with Boyfriend and have invited people to
this event that I now also have to throw away all my worldly belongings so that
some woman that my mother shared a dorm room with in college can buy me a $400
steak knife. Does that seem reasonable
to anyone? I LIVE IN A FUCKING STUDIO
FOR FUCK’S SAKE! At this point if
anyone buys me dishes I’m going to have to move. Also…I fucking registered. It was terrible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>EXAMPLE 2<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Horrible Person:
That’s so cool that you’re getting married.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: Whatever you say,
Jane from accounting.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Horrible Person: No,
seriously. That’s so exciting! How much weight are you trying to lose?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Um…Jane. I don’t know
if you’re getting this but you literally just called me fat. Is there some rule that requires me to become
a significantly smaller person upon agreeing to marry someone? Is this so that when the wedding approaches
no one will be confused and wonder why Boyfriend decided to marry such an obese
lady? Is it so that I can look awesome
in my wedding pictures and then stare at them longingly for the rest of my life
and ask myself repeatedly how I could have let myself go after relentlessly
attending all of those Bridal Bootcamp classes? My boyfriend has seen me, Jane. He already agreed to marry a regular-sized
person so I see no reason to slim down for his sake. Also, do you think there’s some scenario wherein I knew how to lose weight my entire life but just thought about
actually applying it now? I’VE BEEN
TRYING TO LOSE WEIGHT SINCE I LOST MY VIRGINITY, JANE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FUCKING LONG AGO
THAT WAS? I DON’T EVEN THINK I HAD A
DRIVER'S LICENSE YET, JANE! IT DIDN’T
WORK, OK?! THERE’S NO MAGIC ANGLE WHERE I
BECOME ENGAGED AND THEN BECOME ATTRACTIVE.
LET IT GO, JANE! YOU ARE BEING A
TOTAL BITCH RIGHT NOW!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>EXAMPLE 3<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Horrible Person: So
what does your dress look like?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: It’s short and
it’s pink. It was on clearance.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Horrible Person: *Just
slowly backs away*<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ugh…the wedding dress.
I knew that process was going to be a nightmare. When I went home for Christmas, my mom set
aside an entire day that was dedicated to finding “the dress.” I knew we were in for an arduous experience —
particularly after she informed me that our first stop would be David’s Bridal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t pretend to know a lot about weddings, but I knew
enough to know that David’s Bridal was the bottom of the barrel as far as
wedding boutiques were concerned — yet I played along and tried to keep a
brave face. When we arrived, a teenager
was standing at a podium and asked whether or not we had made a
reservation. Um…you’re David’s Bridal
lady, not Chanel, so no…we did not make a reservation. I’m not sure if you noticed but your entire
store is covered in plastic. It’s
disgusting. Let’s not try to pretend
that this is luxurious. You’re located
in a strip mall and the carpeting here is more stained than a preschool’s so
just relax. Needless to say, they were
able to work us in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enter Andrea. Andrea
was an overweight black woman who seemed to be in her mid-30s and was feisty
as shit. She had more energy than I could process and she was asking a lot of
questions about the “big day” and how “he” proposed and how much weight I was
planning to lose, and then she asked to see the ring at which point I realized
I was holding a stranger’s hand again which is not my favorite, and this time
it was worse because I was standing in a dusty David’s Bridal. It was clear that Andrea needed to be reined
the fuck in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Andrea: So what are we
looking for today?!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: Andrea, calm down.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Andrea: Are you
thinking white, ivory or nude?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Me: Andrea, listen to
me. I’m from Los Angeles and I am not
impressed. I want a short dress and I
want to spend zero money. I don’t need
any bridesmaid’s dresses and renting a tux is gross so just keep it together. Short.
Dress. What are your thoughts?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was clear that I had thrown Andrea, but she would not be
deterred. It took her fifteen minutes to
find three dresses she thought might work.
One of them was long. I could
tell she was playing me for a motherfucking chump.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first dress seemed to literally just be a tutu she had
found in a dumpster out back, the second dress was long and I almost broke my
neck trying to get out of the fitting room (which of course Andrea insisted
upon entering with me so now, not only are we holding hands, I’m naked) but the
third dress…worked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was shocked. I had
planned for a day of screaming at my mother and driving for hours around the
south suburbs of Chicago. But when I
tried that third dress on, I thought, “Shit, I think this is it.” My mother, Mimi, thought it was it, too. At this point we didn’t know what to do and
Andrea was just standing there, smug as shit, and asked, “Do you say yes to the
dress?” Well we did and then all hell
broke loose. Before I knew it, I was
being whisked to the front of the store.
Andrea insisted that I close my eyes and then she put a bell in my
hand. She started screaming to everyone
in the store as if it were my birthday and we were at TGI Fridays:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;">
“<i>Here
at David’s Bridal we have a tradition.
We wish you all the happiness in the world as you embark upon your
beautiful marriage. Once you ring that
bell, all that happiness will come to you and we want to thank you again for
saying Yes to The Dress. Now Alison,
ring that bell and open your eyes.
YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED!!!!</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if it was the smell of a burned vacuum motor, the sight of streak-stained mirrors, or the sound of crackling plastic, but
something had obviously fucked with my senses because when I opened my eyes and
rang that bell, I. Was. Bawling. Not
only was I bawling but I was bawling in a David’s Bridal, wearing a wedding
dress, embracing Mimi and Andrea while screaming, “I’M GETTING MARRIED!” It was fucked up. Weddings are stupid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-15547524068567387432015-01-20T11:32:00.000-08:002015-01-20T11:32:52.576-08:00I Literally Do<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m getting married and it is literally the worst thing that
has ever happened to me. I thought
abortion was a hot-button issue, turns out it’s weddings. I was pretty careful about announcing my
engagement to literally no one because of this reason. I even wear my engagement ring on my right
hand as to not draw attention to the fact that a wedding is happening. This is not because I don’t want to marry my
boyfriend (say fiancé and I’ll beat you); he’s wonderful and anyone who knows
him knows he’s singlehandedly responsible for keeping me alive. It’s because weddings turn women into animals
and I’m trying to live my motherfucking life over here. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, shit
has gotten insane and everyone I know is literally falling apart.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Boyfriend moved from quaint Frankfort, IL to terrifying Los
Angeles, CA over a year ago. He has been
my boyfriend on-and-off since I was 18 years old, so once he made the move it
was pretty obvious that we were going to get hitched. As I am not one to wait around, I decided to
check out a wedding venue in July when I was home in Frankfort. Many people found this to be alarming and
pointed out that I was not engaged (he asked me in November). Regardless, I headed over to what had
previously been a brewery to stake out the potential venue for my wedding. I brought my mother and Boyfriend’s mother
along with me. This was a huge mistake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mother is a reasonable woman. She has never pushed me to get married and,
unlike the rest of the world, seemed to think I still had value even as a
34-year-old single woman navigating a large city with almost no skills to speak
of and an overall inability to wear pants.
I thought for sure my mother would be the voice of reason as we embarked
upon our first wedding venue visit. I
could not have been more wrong. As we
entered the Frankfort wedding venue, I was greeted by a wedding planner (what a
bullshit job that is) who was wearing a bedazzled wife-beater. Despite her wardrobe, both Boyfriend’s mother
and my own mother seemed to think this bitch had a lot to offer. After 30 minutes with this monster, she had
ultimately described exactly what I didn’t want. 10-top tables, cold-chicken dinners,
overpriced flower arrangements, a DJ, and wedding favors wrapped in tulle. I was having a full-blown panic attack and
needed to get the fuck out of there.
When we left, I turned to both mothers and instead of having panic
attacks, they were suggesting that I sign the papers, not worry about the fact
that Boyfriend had yet to ask for my hand in marriage, and ultimately just plan
an entire cold-chicken dinner wedding behind his back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was horrified. I
ran back to Los Angeles and told Boyfriend that I could not, under any
circumstances, get married in that godforsaken brewery. He reminded me that he had yet to ask me to
marry him and I felt a lot better. I
think the moms knew I was upset because no one spoke of weddings again until
about two months ago when I got actually engaged. My strategy was to just tell them nothing and
hope for the best. Eventually, I called
them and calmly explained that I would be renting a house in Calabasas where I
would be having a BBQ/wedding. They were
horrified, but they also lived in another city, so I thought I was safe…until I
had to go home for Christmas and see them face-to-face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was total mayhem when I went home for the holidays. I had managed to keep all wedding talk off
the table in Los Angeles, but when I was home – surrounded by my girlfriends
from high school and all my family members – the wheels came off. Because of the holidays, I was forced into a
lot of events with my parents’ friends and Boyfriend’s parents’ friends and a
slew of other people that I see once a year.
Inevitably the wedding topic arose and everyone lost their shit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So many confusing things happen once people find out you’re
getting married. First of all, literal
strangers will be elated for you and I find that to be upsetting. Was my life of singledom so sad for people
that they just couldn’t wait for it to be over?
I mean…not once have I been at a dinner party and said, “Yeah, I’ve
lived alone for ten years” and had someone jump for motherfucking joy. Instead they just ask why I’m eating so much
cake and then demand that I be available to babysit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Secondly, everyone insists upon seeing your ring. I can’t conjure another scenario wherein
strangers are allowed to scrutinize part of your wardrobe while you’re
present. Also, I feel like that
shouldn’t be the first thing we talk about.
I mean…these are strangers – acquaintances at best – and now they’re
just holding my hand and telling me what a good job my boyfriend did. I mean…he’s not retarded. Any asshole is capable of buying a diamond
ring. Shouldn’t you be asking if he
beats me or not? Or if I’m pregnant? Or if we like each other at all? And why are you still touching me? And no I don’t want to see <i>your</i> stupid ring I didn’t actually
approve physical contact in the first place and now you’re just trying to trick
me into holding your hand again. GET THE
FUCK OFF OF ME! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, these wedding mongers start peppering you with
questions about the details of your wedding and then feel compelled to tell you
what a stupid idea that is followed by what they did for their boring
weddings. For instance, I’m getting
married in Los Angeles and people keep warning me about the potential issues I
might face when having a destination wedding.
I FUCKING LIVE HERE YOU PSYCHOS!
THIS JUST IN, I HAVEN’T LIVED IN CHICAGO FOR A FUCKING DECADE AND WHILE
IT MAY NOT BE CONVENIENT FOR <i>YOU</i> THAT
I’M GETTING MARRIED IN THE PLACE WHERE I LIVE, I’M GETTING MARRIED IN THE
FUCKING PLACE WHERE I LIVE!!! THAT IS
NOT WEIRD AND IT DOES NOT CONSTITUTE A DESTINATION WEDDING YOU LITERAL
LUNATICS!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ugh…after that all happens, people just start offering to
throw parties for you.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this point,
I’m having like five weddings and something called a shower.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wish I was dead.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Listen, everyone’s excited and that’s very nice. I just wish they were this excited when I was
moving by myself for the fifth time or filing my own taxes. I can’t wait for this godforsaken thing to be
over<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>. Ultimately,
weddings are epic wastes of money that turn well-meaning people into barbaric
psychopaths. Luckily, I’m real into Boyfriend. Weddings are bullshit but as far as marriage
is concerned, I literally do.</span></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-68361064824581458422014-06-24T09:39:00.001-07:002014-06-24T09:39:37.276-07:00Relax<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Upon realizing you are literally riddled with auto-immune
disorders, it’s important to take care of yourself. I believe Oprah calls this “Self Care.” It’s when you shirk all normal obligations,
i.e. going to work, in the interest of say taking a bath. I’m real into Self Care for this reason. So when my friend, Ilya, suggested we
adventure over to a Korean Spa, I was interested.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Korean Spas are an LA institution…well, technically they’re
a Korean institution but just like everything else, LA stole this idea and now
it’s ours. Fuck you, Korea. I’m very familiar with White Person
Spas. This is where you spend gazillions
of dollars to be treated like royalty despite the fact that you live in a
studio and drive a 2001 Daewoo. I’ve
frequented White Person Spas by borrowing money from my parents and reminding
them that my spine is fusing together. I
didn’t realize how different a Korean Spa would be and I was not prepared for
my experience. I’m gonna be honest, they
tried to kill me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There were several red flags I should have taken into
consideration upon entering the Korean Spa but I was so excited by the prospect
of being naked and rubbed that I ignored my finer instincts. For starters, the entrance to this hovel was
adorned with plastic flowers. Nothing
depicts cheap unsophistication like a plastic flower. They’re horrifying. Next, they made me pay up front. Not a good sign. After stealing all my money, these clowns
gave me two towels reminiscent of those found at a homeless shelter and a hair
net. A HAIR NET! I went to college for one reason only, to
never have to wear a hair net in my daily life.
I should have turned around at this point but this particular spa was
said to have the only natural hot springs in LA, known for its restorative powers
and I had just been on disability for two months so restorative powers
definitely seemed to be in order. I
continued on with this process and I regret it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I walked into the locker room (disgusting…obviously) and got
naked. Typically this would be the point
where I wrapped myself in a fluffy robe but instead I draped myself with a
scratchy towel that barely covered my jadge.
I decided to keep my underwear on in the interest of being modest. I didn’t have a robe but I still had my
dignity. Next I was greeted by an old
Korean woman wearing a black bikini with a skirted bottom. I was alarmed. She clearly didn’t speak English but I was
able to quickly determine that she was yelling at me and now I was scared so I
got in line and followed her to what can best be described as a horse
stable. I entered an all tiled room that
was divided by glass walls but had no doors.
Each stall was adorned by a plastic table, several shower heads, and
what can only be described as a mop bucket.
I was panicked. At this point, my
new Korean friend and I had a little chat:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Terrifying Korean Woman: Gimmie your towel</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: Aggressive</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">TKW (pointing at my underwear): What are those?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: Underwear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">TKW: Take them off</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: No</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">TKW: Do it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: Ok</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">TKW: Lay down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Me: I’m naked and scared and you’re being very rude</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">TKW: *maniacal laughter*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I laid down and tried to wrap my head around the fact that I
was nude in a horse stall and had just handed my underwear to a stranger. I had expected pampering but instead received
physical brutality. Ilya was in the
stall next to me and the entire thing was reminiscent of Schindler’s List. I thought I might never see her again and
started to recall all the good times we shared.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was face down at this point and had to use my other senses
in order to determine what was happening.
I heard a lot of water and finally the terrifying Korean woman placed a
towel over my bare ass. I thought that
was nice until I realized that she was literally beating me to death through a
surreptitiously placed towel. For the
next hour, she randomly placed this towel all over my body. Occasionally, she would dip the towel into
the mop bucket and it would be soaked with what I have to assume was the water
she used to launder her bikini skirt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the meantime, I was getting sporadically splashed with
water from the stall next to me where Ilya was getting a “scrub.” At the time, I thought she was drowning. This was not the intimate experience I had
anticipated. I have never equated an
intimate experience with hoses and mop buckets.
Also, my intimate experiences typically have a door and lack an aging
Korean woman. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I was imagining my happy, intimate experience place, I
realized I was being slapped by the Korean.
Apparently she wanted me to turn over so that I would be face up. She wasn’t even pretending to massage me
anymore. She was just hitting me. When I tried to speak up, she put a mask all
over my face. I believe this was an
attempt to blind me so she could focus on rubbing my boobs for the next 20 minutes. It didn’t even feel sexual. It felt like she was trying to remove them
from my torso. Finally, she washed and
conditioned my hair. It seemed to me
like this was her apology for beating me and then ineffectively fondling
me. I started to like the Korean woman
at this point and then worried that I was suffering from Stockholm
Syndrome. Just as I was envisioning how
happy the Korean and I would be together, she ripped me off the plastic gurney,
handed me my underwear and sent me on my way.
I was crestfallen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The thing that’s confusing about a Korean Spa is that you
may end up inadvertently falling in love with your captor. Also, it’s not as relaxing as they say it
is. Also, my spine is still fusing
together. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-17523547359009350022014-05-26T19:59:00.001-07:002014-05-26T19:59:42.208-07:00Good Grief<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">I have a disease called </span><span lang="DA" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">Ankylosing Spondylitis</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"> and the last four months have been intense. The first two months, I became riddled with lupus and was forced to go on short-term disability. The last two months, I have returned to work and little else. Prior to all of that, I spent ten glorious days in Cedars Sinai hospital and then several months and years after that trying to come to terms with a disease I can</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t even be really sure exists. I certainly can</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t pronounce it, and that strikes me as half the battle. If I can</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t pronounce my disease, how can I be expected to overcome it? </span></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">Having a crippling spine disorder is confusing. One day I was watching the Superbowl and the next day I was in the hospital after which I was told that my spine was fusing together. My first reaction was denial. I believe that</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s one of the five stages of grief, but in my case in seemed like practicality at its best. I mean</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">…</span><span lang="FR" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">you can</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t just believe someone when they tell you your spine is fusing together. Even after seeing pictures I thought, </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">“</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">Oh please</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">…</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">that could be anyone</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s spine. Who</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s to say it</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s actually mine?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">The next stage is anger which was easy for me to pinpoint as anger is the only emotion I have an actual grip on. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">I was angry when my doctor told me that the solution to spinal fusion is a weekly injection. I told him that he should Suck My Dick</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">©</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">, reminding him that I had spent my entire life not being a heroin addict and wasn</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t about to start shooting up now. Even more enraging was his insistence on these needles which eventually just resulted in me getting lupus. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">This is where bargaining came in. I reasoned that if my doctor could find me an injection that didn</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t give me lupus, I would stop insisting that he Suck My Dick</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">©</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">. This worked! I now get two non-lupus inducing shots (so far) once a month and take 10mg of Methotrexate (actual chemotherapy</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">…</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">let</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s not even get into it) once a week. 16 pills and 2 shots a month doesn</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t seem all that bad. It was just enough to launch me into the stage of grief I enjoy the most called depression.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">I <i>love</i> depression. If you</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">re me, depression means you eat as much pasta as you want while catching up on all your favorite TV shows. To me, depression is akin to vacation, and I have loved every second of it. When I first got diagnosed with my fake disease, I insisted on working through it. I made lots of proclamations like, </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">“</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">I AM NOT MY DISEASE!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">and </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">“</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">I HAVE COURAGE!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">and </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">“</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span lang="PT" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">M NOT GONNA LET SOME WEIRDO SPINE DISORDER KEEP ME FROM LIVING MY LIFE!</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">Right around my last proclamation is when I got lupus at which point I stopped living my life</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">…</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">Literally. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">Depression is hard to climb out of BECAUSE I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!! What</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s better than sitting around thinking about yourself all the time and listing the ways in which you have been wronged by the world and more so the medical community?! The only thing that could make this better would be copious amounts of drugs and alcohol, but I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span lang="ES-TRAD" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">m totes sobes</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"> meaning I don</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">t drink or do drugs meaning I have more to be depressed about! Woo-hoo! </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">But it</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s time. Acceptance is the last stage of grief. I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">m depressed just thinking about acceptance, and I can see how this might be a backslide for people. It</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s time for me to rejoin the living. It</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s time to refocus my energy on my old problems. What</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">s the point in focusing on fictitious diseases when I could be obsessing about my weight?! I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">ve wasted so much time focusing on Ankylosing Spondylitis that I almost totally forgot about my morbid obesity! I should start trying on pants! Nothing pulls me out of Disease-Depression</span><span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">©</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;"> like pants. Or my acting career! Why spend precious time concerned about the bevy of auto-immune disorders I have when I could be gripped by the hopelessness of being an actor in Los Angeles! I mean it is terrible! Or money. I literally have zero money. Yet I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">m squandering my time focusing on how tired I am from having lupus! It definitely seems like acceptance is the key. I miss my old problems. I pray to God my car breaks down on the way to work tomorrow so that I have something new to worry about. If God cares about me at all, I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">ll soon be faced with an unwanted pregnancy or the death of a loved one. If history is any indication, I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">ll probably have a new disease by the time I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">m done writing this. But I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">m not going to let that get me down. I have to focus all my energy on how I</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.1200008392334px;">ll likely always live in a studio apartment and will never, ever be thin enough to wear pants. </span></span></div>
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Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-24357775220652987292014-02-27T19:43:00.000-08:002014-02-27T19:43:31.382-08:00I Have Legs<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Let’s review the facts</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">:</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 1: God hates me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 2: I have a fucking weirdo, made-up disease
called Ankylosing Spondylitis</span> which is also known as Bamboo Spine
because your spine inflames and then fuses together...exciting.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 3: I have to give myself a shot every week
(actual needle that I’m forced to jam into my thigh) to cure this fucking
monstrosity.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 4: The shot accidentally gave me something
called Drug-Induced Lupus.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 5: I started a new shot.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 6: That shot gave me Drug-Induced Lupus
too.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 7: I’m on disability until I can get my
fucking act together.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 8: None of this is making me skinnier which
is typically the silver lining when becoming ill.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Fact No. 9: I literally hate everyone.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">I guess the good news is I don’t have any
money. Wait…no. That’s not right. I have legs?
I think it’s important to review your appendages when faced with life’s
challenges. Every time I come back from
a doctor’s appointment I like to check-in with my senses and appendages as a
sort of self-help routine. “I have legs,
I have arms, I can see, I can hear…”
This placates me until I remember that lots of people have those things
and none of their spines are fusing together. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">I recently had to meet with my doctor again. He is a literal monster. Like many doctors, he doesn’t seem to fully
understand the emotional ramifications of the things he says. He sticks to the facts with no regard for how
a recovering alcoholic, chubby Midwesterner with no life skills might misconstrue
those things to mean “you’re going to die.”
He says things like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">“The solution is simple. You’ll just give yourself a shot of painfully
burning medicine every week.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">“Weird…you have Lupus.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">“Don’t be scared, but we’re starting you on
chemotherapy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">You can imagine how I reacted to that last bit of
information. “I have legs, I have arms,
I can see, I can hear…” The new drug I’m
starting is called Methotrexate. He
keeps calling it chemotherapy which makes me think I might finally get skinny
in which case I take back everything I said about God. He’s a delight and answers prayers. But this theory has yet to be proven. I’ll believe that God cares about me if my
ass gets smaller. My doctor wrote down
the name of my new medicine and then wrote beside it in all caps: DON’T GET
PREGNANT. I have to admit, I was
alarmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: Don’t get pregnant ever or while I’m on this
medicine?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Dr: While you’re on the medicine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: Why?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Dr: Methotrexate is often used to induce abortion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: Um…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Dr: And to treat cancer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: Um…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Dr: You might experience some nausea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: Because the drug you’re giving me is looking for
the fetus to kill?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Dr: It’s nothing to be alarmed about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: Really? Cause
it seems like you’re just prescribing me abortion medicine at this point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Dr: Don’t be scared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: Right.
Nothing scary about cancer and abortions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Dr: You’re doing great.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">Me: I hate you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 107%;">There are only two things I’ve managed to do
correctly in my life 1) not be an intravenous drug user 2) not accidentally get
pregnant and then abort unwanted fetus. In
a gripping twist of fate, I’m now forced to shoot myself up every week and am just
blindly taking abortion medicine despite not being pregnant. I MEAN IS THIS A JOKE?! How fucking dare that doctor tell me not to
get pregnant! I MEAN…I GET IT! I’VE BEEN NOT GETTING PREGNANT SINCE I WAS 15!!! YOU DON’T HAVE TO TELL <i>ME</i> NOT TO GET PREGNANT. IT’S
THE ONLY THING I’VE BEEN DOING RIGHT UP UNTIL THIS POINT YET SOMEHOW I’M STILL
BEING FORCED TO EXPERIENCE THE EPIC STOMACH PAINS OF A SHREDDED UTERUS!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So that’s where I’m at. It clearly makes sense. I don’t have cancer yet am taking
chemotherapy. I’m not pregnant with any
of my horrible ex-boyfriend’s children yet am taking abortion medicine willy-nilly. And I’m still too fat to wear pants...obviously. It’s times like these that I like to think
about my appendages. They bring me great
hope. "I have legs, I have arms, I can
see, I can hear. I have legs, I have
arms, I can see, I can hear..."</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Alison Royerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00326294627372583141noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1928220155801373116.post-65431587037994815952013-12-20T13:53:00.001-08:002013-12-20T13:53:56.832-08:00Wanna Have Sex?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A video...for your viewing pleasure...</div>
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