Me: “Why were you Googling jobs at our gym?”
Him: “I wanted to know if they would give me a job as a fatass.”
Him: “You’re not watching the Oscars.”
Him: “Why not?”
Me: “I never watch the Oscars.”
Him: “And that’s why I married you.”
Me: “I really think I can lose weight if I make it part of Lent.”
Him: “…you’re afraid of your grandma?”
Me: “This is going to be a long forty days.”
Me: “Of us giving up dining out for Lent.”
Me: “Is there a problem?”
Him: “I thought it was FOUR days.”
I throw my bra across the room and it hits the doorknob, circles it and hangs there.
Him: “Look at the snow. It looks like that one Disney movie. Frosted.”
Him (searching YouTube): “Fucking people. I don’t care about your cats.”
Me: “What are you looking for?”
Him: “That show Eight out of Ten Cats. And all it’s coming up with is these dumb people and their cats.”
Him: “Oops. My bad. Sorry, people.”
Me: “What now?”
Him: “I just realized I was searching for Eight out of “Eh” Cats.”
THE TEN MOST ANNOYING THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO MY BODY AFTER HAVING A KID AND/OR TURNING 30
1. Liquid Boobs
Before 30: At the pinnacle of my youth, my boobs were my best feature. They were firm. They were proud. They were big, but not too big. They were round, but not too round. They retained their shape while still maintaining a seductive jiggle, like two expertly-prepared Jello molds.
After 30: Pregnancy. Childbirth. Breastfeeding. Beautiful life moments? Of course. Hormonal nightmares that kicked off my bosom’s slow transformation from wondrous boobage to a pair of soft-boiled eggs? Also yes.
Putting on a bra used to be a literal snap. Now it’s a whole PROCESS of lifting, dropping, adjusting, pouring and repouring. There’s also a fair amount of contorting my arms behind my back while struggling to do up half a dozen tiny hooks, all before settling my inch-wide bra straps into two very angry red shoulder ruts.
2. Chinese Phone Book Syndrome
Before 30: I’m maybe not the best example of this phenomenon as I’ve always had some measure of double chin, but before 30 I could at least disguise it with heavy contouring, artful photography, and, depending on the season, turtlenecks.
After 30: There is NO disguising my double chin now. Not with even the most over-exposed downward-angle cam-whore photography there is. I’ve gotten older. I’ve gotten heavier. I also suspect that at some point Chin #1 and Chin #2 got drunk and hooked up, because a bouncing baby Chin #3 has appeared.
3. “Mom Mouth”
Before 30: In order to demonstrate the “Mom Mouth” phenomenon, I had to find a ten-year-old picture of my face in “resting” position (read: not smiling, not laughing, not posing for the camera.) Consider the below photograph the best I could do. You will notice that “Mom Mouth” has not set in, largely because I wasn’t a Mom yet.
Believe it or don’t, this is my face in “resting” position now. Note if you wish the deep laugh lines above the lips, but those are simply due to age. “Mom Mouth,” however, is the more disturbing phenomenon in which the corners of a mother’s mouth start to turn irrevocably downward, mainly from being forced to act like a complete crabass 24 hours a day.
4. Let’s Hear It For the Beard
Before 30: As a brunette of heavily Eastern European stock, I have never been what one would call “smooth.” (You can read about the woes of my hirsutism in more detail here if you’re so inclined.) Still, before I turned 30, I maybe had a chin hair once every three to six months. Not unmanageable.
After 30: Now if I don’t pluck my chin every other day I start to look like Abraham Lincoln PDQ.
5. Like A Flan in A Cupboard
Before 30: Back in the day my girl parts were tight. Elastic. A pleasure, I dare say, to all who ventured forth. Sometimes, if a man was large enough, I even *gasp* bled a little. How dainty I was back then!
After 30: Brilliant actor-comedian Eddie Izzard once quipped: “The Austro-Hungarian Empire, famous for fuck all! Yes, all they did was slowly collapse like a flan in a cupboard.”
Just like my girl parts after delivering a child.
(Yep. That’s right. I just compared my vagina to a collapsing flan, and by extension, the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Click here if you want to read more gory details about my gynecological woes.)
6. Adult-Onset Grossness
Before 30: I’ll be honest. I’ve never been a porcelain-skinned doll. My face has always been a war zone, with troops of blackheads encamped across my nose, and small but tightly organized bands of guerrilla whiteheads terrorizing my T-zone.
After 30: Adult-onset cystic acne took hold after 30, running rampant once I got pregnant and gave birth to my son. Long gone are the mere pimples of yore, skirmishing for territory. Now huge, red, nuclear cysts explode all over my lower face and chin, taking months to go away and leaving bitter scorched earth behind.
7. The Walk of Nosferatu
Before 30: I walked proud. I walked tall. I held my head at the 5’7” height it was meant to be held at. My knees didn’t make noise. Neither did my back. And while I’ve never been a morning person per se, getting out of bed was in no way the rich and painful symphony of grinding bones it is today.
After 30: Mornings now consist of me easing myself slowly out from under my bed covers, pulling myself up to an osteoporotic 5’3”, and shuffling downstairs to the kitchen like a slow, gimpy, complaining Nosferatu.
8. Ashy Feet
Before 30: You know what I did to take care of my feet before I turned 30? Essentially nothing. Sure, I painted my toenails. I took a pumice stone to the bottoms of my feet once in a while. Slathered on some lotion… sometimes. Generally though, my feet were fairly low-maintenance.
After 30: My feet are now drier, scalier, and ashier than the bottom of my oven after I never clean it. Bottom-of-the-foot maintenance is becoming increasingly more time-consuming, and it involves more acids, peels, lotions, and treatments than Gwyneth Paltrow’s ugly entitled face.
I’ll also add that my toenails have become thicker and more difficult to clip, with a serious tendency toward “the yellows.” Now I don’t paint them so they look pretty; I paint them so they don’t look disgusting.
9. Piles for Miles
Before 30: You can read more about this in my previous blog post “piles for miles,” but the upshot is that before I turned 30 I had absolutely zero experience with hemorrhoids other than occasionally seeing a Preparation-H commercial on TV and thinking: “Gross.”
After 30: With pregnancy came piles. Piles for miles. And after the pregnancy was over, they didn’t leave. Now I’d classify my current asshole status as “bumpy at best, no man’s land at worst.”
10. Hot Flashes
Before 30: What are hot flashes? I don’t even… only old women get those, right? I mean, menopause doesn’t start until you’re like, 70. I’m pretty sure.
So there you have it! Those are my sad but true “10 after 30.” Feel free to add any of yours that I’ve left off my list, and check the est. 1975 Facebook page early and often for fresh material!
Because there is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING FUNNIER than reading the social media conversations of complete strangers, I thought I’d jump on here tonight and bless you with a fine selection of witty Facebook tomfoolery starring ME AND MY GIRLS!
Oh, don’t try to act like you have anything better to read in the middle of taking a dump. Shut up and scroll.
If you ever just happen to be awake at 3:00 AM, and if you ever just happen to be trapped next to a snoring husband, and if you ever just happen to find yourself combing the darkest depths of the Internet to keep from dying of boredom, you might just happen to stumble across the entry for “hair removal” on Wikipedia.
(I mean, not that I’ve ever done that or anything. I’m just saying you might.)
ANYWAY. If you do, it will be your awesome fortune to happen across the following image, subtitled “Sample distribution of body hair in women and men”:
I totally appreciate what this image is trying to do. It’s trying to show us where we furry and where we not. However, while this picture may be accurate for some, it is certainly not accurate for all.
More specifically, it is not even remotely accurate for me.
So without further ado, I present to you: “Sample distribution of body hair in Sarah and men.”
Keep your masturbating to a minimum, please.
My girl T: You forgot yo butt crack.
Me: “Butt crack not shown.” I’ll add that.
Last week I had the amazing fortune to be tagged in a “Sunshine Award” blog post by the beautiful and gluten-free Brooke over at Miss Teen USSR. Well, as you might imagine, I was absolutely thrilled. My blood pressure soared. My adrenaline coursed. My butthole quivered. I’d never won a thing in my entire life and here I was getting a Sunshine Award?! *gasp*
Yeah, I didn’t know what it was either.
BUT. I was educated soon enough. According to the lovely Jess at Aesthetic Fauna, “a Sunshine Award is FBBB (for bloggers, by bloggers) and a way to recognize people who have charmed, supported, enlightened, and inspired the awarder in recent months.”
“Charmed”? “Enlightened”? “Inspired”?
BROOKE, DO YOU EVEN *READ* THIS BLOG?!
I KID, of course. Thank you so much, Brooke. You know I appreciate it. Here, I even made you this picture to show you my thanks:
So. As a Sunshine Award Recipient™ it now falls upon me to answer a series of eight questions, which in my case have been chosen by Brooke of Miss Teen USSR. Then, in a bloggy tag-you’re-it kind of way, I will then ask a series of eight questions to some other Sunshine Award recipients. And so it goes.
Read on if you’re fascinated enough with me to be excited about my answers to these questions!
1. What’s the one book you always freak out about and demand your friends read? Over the past couple of years, it’s been House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. Yeah, I know it’s pretentious. You wanna box me?
2. You have $100 in your wallet. Where do you go to eat? Where sushi is.
3. Your choice: flying cars or hoverboards? Flying cars fo sho. Hoverboards still seem suspiciously like exercise.
4. What’s the one thing your partner does that makes DIVORCE flash behind your eyes? Leaves sopping wet coffee-stained paper towels that are also somehow covered with burnt toast crumbs in the kitchen sink. Manscapes in the bathroom and doesn’t clean it up. Puts me on video chat with his parents when I look like something a zombie would classify as “ew.” Asks me to “just give him a handy” when I’m too tired for sex. Oh, did you say just *one* thing?
5. Best time of day to be productive – early morning or late at night? Late at night, mama.
6. I am of the belief that all jeans require a belt. If you agree, you may move to the next question. If you disagree, you need to make a very good argument for it. I disagree, mainly because I have a big belly and with certain pairs of jeans a belt has the unfortunate effect of bifurcating my midsection and making it look like I have two guts. You know. One above the belt and one below. Now, I will say that this does not happen with ALL pairs of jeans, but it does happen with some. I think that’s a decent argument.
7. You fling your covers off the bed and there is a ____ on your pillow that makes you shriek long and hard. What is it? A FUCKING STINKBUG. They are *everywhere* here. EVERYWHERE. And they’re like wizards. They can appear out of nowhere. Seriously, there will not be a stinkbug for MILES and then the next minute one is just hanging out on your shoulder. I HATE THEM SO MUCH.
8. If you have children: knowing FULL WELL that there is a HUGE chance it could go HORRIBLY wrong, if your child wants to pursue a career in show business, do you help them? Gah. I have no idea. I hope it doesn’t come to that, because I would be really torn as to the right thing to do. I am sort of dreading the “Mom, can I go out for football?” conversation for similar reasons.
All righty. Now it’s my turn to tag people for their own Sunshine Awards (though I’m not going to tag anyone who is also currently in the middle of doing one for Brooke.) I hereby nominate:
So I had my kidney stone removed last Friday, and since then I’ve spent a lot of time recovering in bed — partially because of the pain, and partially because of the pain killers. Which is why there hasn’t been a lot of GO GO BLOGGING ACTION! And for that I apologize.
The good news is that being confined to bed has given me ample time to catch up on my television. Which honestly? Is a huge relief. That shit was starting to become a serious issue. Whole seasons of television shows were accumulating on my computer like stinkbugs on a window screen. Watching TV was beginning to feel a lot like work – overwhelming, stressful, and bullshit.
Thankfully, after a week in bed, my television workload is now a lot more manageable. Thanks, impossibly painful kidney stone!
The bad news, however, was that watching billions of hours of television in a row revealed to me that something was off about my laptop’s speakers. The sound just didn’t seem as crisp as normal, the audio coming out muffled and low.
At first, I thought I was just having problems processing things because I was out of my tits on painkillers. But that wasn’t the issue.
Then I surmised that I was just having some trouble hearing the audio over things like my son’s never-ending chatter and the constantly running furnace. But that wasn’t the issue either.
After a series of experiments I also ruled out: poor quality downloads, software compatibility problems, messed-up system settings, and a few other possibilities. At the end of it all I was forced to conclude that something had to be wrong with the machine itself.
To which I had the overall response of “God damn it.”
But I was too tired and in too much discomfort from the kidney stone surgery to deal with it. So I just suffered. Until one afternoon about midway through the week, when I shifted a little bit in bed and suddenly THE VOLUME SHOT UP SO HIGH THAT MY EARDRUMS EXPLODED AND I BLED FROM MY EAR CANALS AND MY HAIR FELL OUT AND OTHER SPECTACULAR UNTRUTHS.
Yeah, none of that stuff happened. But what *did* happen was that for a brief, wonderful moment my laptop’s audio did return to its normal levels of volume and clarity, and you can imagine mama’s excitement at once again being able to hurr the teevee. Sadly, that excitement was short-lived, because when I adjusted my laptop to find a more comfortable position in which to enjoy my improved television experience, the speakers went right back to sounding like they were stuffed with used diapers.
I collapsed into a pile, defeated. And when I did… the volume returned.
I sat up a little. The sound went to shit again.
I was onto something. I could FEEL it! So I did some more experiments.
I moved left. I moved right. I shifted in this direction. I shifted in that direction. I sat up. I lay down. I moved the bedclothes around. I did some other weirdo maneuvers. And after about ten minutes of flailing around in my bed like a moron, I finally figured out what the problem was.
MY GUT HAD BEEN BLOCKING THE SPEAKERS.
Yup. That’s right. The whole time. The particular position in which I’d been laying had been crushing the front speaker of my laptop against the pasty white flesh of my ample belly. Don’t ask me how I went four days without figuring this out. It might have had something to do with Percoset.
Right now I’m of two minds about the whole thing. Should I celebrate that my computer isn’t broken after all? Or should I crawl into a sad, forgotten hole somewhere and yearn for the days when my gargantuan stomach was not so large that it could INADVERTENTLY MUFFLE SOUNDS with its girth?
Once you incorporate the fact that my gut also consistently presses against my laptop’s track pad and sends the cursor off into Nowhere Land, I think you’ll agree that crawling into that sad, forgotten hole sounds mighty tempting.
Husband: “Look at that couple jogging. That should be us.”
Me: “And what would our son be doing while we’re out jogging all over town?”
Husband: “Making chili.”
Me: “You better hurry to the gym. You won’t get into the spinning class.”
Husband: “Yes I will.”
Me: “You have like 5 minutes to get there.”
Husband: “I know.”
Husband: “If I don’t get in, I’ll just come home.”
Husband: “And then go back and burn down the gym.”
Husband: “Why can’t someone come in the middle of the night and exercise me in my sleep?”
Me: “What, like put a weight in your hand and lift it up and down for you?”
Husband: “Yeah. While I dream of chocolate. And butts. And butter. And boobs.”
Me: “Did you find your credit card?”
Me: “Where was it?”
Husband: “You hid it.”
Me: “Seriously, where was it?”
Husband: “In your butt.”
Son: “Mom, you have one really small tooth.”
Son: “It’s like a baby tooth.”
Me: “It’s not a baby tooth, it’s just smaller than my other teeth.”
Husband: “It got worn down by all the food.”
Want to read some more funny? Check out my latest post on BLUNTmoms called “Onions and Cigarette Butts.” It’s all about morning sickness and eating a Quizno’s sandwich full of cigarette butts (sort of) (not really) (just go read it.)