6. Okay, my feet are so small, sometimes I think it’s a miracle that I’m not constantly falling over. I’m like the opposite of a Weeble Wobble. So you’d think I might be happy that my feet grew like half a size during my second pregnancy. Ennnhhhh, wrong. It doesn’t sound like a big deal until you consider the fact that I have an entire closet of shoes that DON’T F’ING FIT ANYMORE. So now every time I get dressed up for a night on the town (all two times we’ve gone out since having kids), I’m like Anastasia trying to cram her grotesque foot into Cinderella’s glass slipper.
7. I don’t have bags under my eyes. I have luggage sets. And it doesn’t seem to matter how much beauty sleep I get. I swear sometimes it looks like two caterpillars are camped out under the skin beneath my eyes, and I totally wouldn’t be surprised if my skin opened up one day and two butterflies flew out. I might be a little freaked out, but mostly I’d be psyched to get rid of my bags.
8. Before I was preggers I only pictured muffin tops on those slutty high school chicks who wear super low, low-rise, thong-showing jeans with short shirts. And now I stand corrected. I could wear pants up to my diaphragm, but as soon as I button them closed my extra skin would just cascade out all over the waistband. Like if it’s raining outside and someone forgets their umbrella they should just duck under my overhangs.
9. Okay, I don’t know if my uterus is all annoyed that she’s being ignored after getting all that attention for 9 months, but this is what my period used to be:
And now it’s:
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Uty (that’s my uterus’ nickname) is all like, “Yeah, you know how you were all psyched and shit not to have your period for fifteen months? Well, I saved up all that junk for you and now I’m gonna deliver it.” The first time I got my period after breastfeeding I was like, “Agggghhhhh, I’m bleeding to death, call 911!”
So that’s nine, and I’m too lazy to write more even though there are so many more things to bitch about. Baby brain, stretch marks, varicose veins, your pee spraying everywhere, etc. etc. etc. Oh and I’m sure the women who had vaginal births probably have plenty more to add, but I ain’t gonna go there. Every time that comes up, half of my friends say their vajayjays are tighter than the eye of a needle while the other half claim their vajayjays are like gaping Grand Canyons or some shit like that. Eww gross. I mean, uhhh, all vaginas are beautiful.
SOME A-HOLE AT PANERA: Congratulations! When are you due?
ME: Twenty months ago, fuckface. It’s called a muffin top.
FYI, I didn’t really say fuckface, but I totally wanted to.
Crotch and other words that make me uncomfortable
You know those skinny bitches who can order jeans off the Internet that they’ve never tried on before and when they arrive they fit perfectly? I am not one of them. And if you’re one of them, I’m sorry for calling you a bitch, as well as a lot of other names behind your back.
I’m one of those d’Anjou-shaped women who goes to the store and apologizes to the salesperson 9,000 times for bringing 100 pair of jeans into the fitting room. And then after trying on all of them, I’m forced to pick between the pair with the acid wash and the pair with factory-made holes because they’re the only ones I could squeeze over my thighs.
Where am I going with all of this? Well, the other day I went shopping with my mom at my third favorite store in the whole wide world.
#1. Tarjay
#2. Costco when they put out the free samples
#3. Nordstrom, where they’ll let you return anything, even shit you didn’t buy there. Except toddlers (yes, once I tried)
So anyways, I’d vowed not to shop for new jeans until I dropped most of the baby weight I’d gained, but A. I’m coming to realize that ain’t gonna happen, and B. Every time I lean over I’m petrified someone is going to notice that I’m still wearing maternity jeans. So F it.
As I’m standing in the fitting room in a mountain of discarded jeans that must be mislabeled with the wrong sizes, I try on the last pair. Hello, what is this? A pair that fits? They’re perfect. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh (FYI, that’s the sound of angels singing). The color, the waist, the rise, the crotch (almost as bad as the words moist and kumquat). I look at the label. NYDJ. Hmm, what does that stand for?
And then it hits me. Not Your Daughter’s Jeans. Oh no you di’n’t. I can’t buy these. isn’t Not Your Daughter’s Jeans just a fancy way of saying MOM jeans? True, I do have a daughter of my own now and I don’t want to wear her jeans, but only because they’re covered in residual poop particles after giant poopie diapers. As I stand there staring at my finally perfect looking ass, I wonder whether it’s worth it. Should I buy a pair of Mom jeans?
Well, let’s just say if you see me looking awesome in a pair of jeans, you’re welcome to whistle at my sexy tush. Just don’t ask me why the label is scratched off.
I kind of wish sexting was around when I was a teenager because I’d really like a commemorative picture of what my boobs used to look like.
40 is the new “I want to kill myself”
Anyone who knows me well knows I have FIBS. Fake Irritable Bowel Syndrome. It tends to flare up when a new People Magazine arrives (courtesy of my MIL who passes me her old ones because I’m too cheap to subscribe).
ME: Honey, can you watch the kids while I go to the bathroom for a few minutes?
TRANSLATION: I’ve got a date with some hot celebrities who just had babies but already look great in bikinis and make me feel like shit.
So yesterday I opened up my two-week-old People magazine and found an article titled “40 is the new 20.” And since I’m turning 40 tomorrow (unless someone is nice enough to pour me a cup of Drano), I thought how F’ing appropriate. I think to properly pick this shitty article apart, we should start at the beginning. The title. 40 is the new 20. I sure as hell hope not. Here’s what I was doing when I was 20:
Walking home with my undies inside out after a stupid ass frat party.
Telling people I didn’t think email would ever catch on because people like to hear each other’s voices.
Hovering over a public toilet puking up pink daiquiri (thank you spell check) as my roommate held my hair back and in between vomits I apologized as it splattered all over our naked calves. I owe you my firstborn, Hannah. No seriously, come take her. At least until she’s four. And then again when she’s a teenager.
So if 40 is the new 20, kill me now. I want nothing to do with it. But just for shits and giggles (BEST. PHRASE. EVER.) let’s continue on to what some of the celebs are saying about being 40.
Sofia Vergara bitches about her thrice-weekly (is thrice even a word ’cause it sounds made up) torturous glute workouts, but adds that the results are totally worth it. Ehhhh, wrongo. I’m calling bullshit on this one Sofe. You don’t look like that because of your workouts. You look like that because of some damn good genes. I could work out thrice a day for two years straight and my glutes would still look pregnant.
And Jennifer Garner says, “I’m really happy. I’m in a great place in my life.” Oh yeah, which place is that? Your home in LA, New York, France or Bali? I’m just making that shit up but I imagine that’s where she has homes. Yeah, I’d be in a good place too if I had multiple mansions, and none of that McMansion shit. Not that I have anything against McThings. Oh shit, now I have a craving.
And then there’s Gwenyth (how the F do you spell that name?!) Paltrow’s page. She says a lot of good stuff, but then ends it with, “After two kids I look better now than I did when I was 22.” Ehhhh, wrong! You look good G. You’d look good at 80 wearing a paper bag, but you don’t look better than you did at 22. No F’ing way. The only reason you might think that is because you probably had some weird haircut or were wearing a lame flannel shirt in the mid 90’s, but there ain’t no way your belly looks better AFTER you had two kids.
Oh and I LOVE what Gabrielle Union says about staying beautiful. “I drink a gallon of water a day.” A gallon?! A. I’d have to duct tape a water bottle t
o my mouth to drink that much. And B. I’d have to duct tape a toilet to my tush.
Anyways, blah blah blah, the article goes on and on and I need to stop talking about it because I’m just sounding like a jealous bitch. Which I am. Because I’m pretty damn sure when it comes to MY body, 40 is NOT the new 20. Unless of course when I was 20 I had a muffin top, a beard, an F’ing constellation chart on my chest, extra elbow skin like a friggin’ elephant, and boobs that belong on the cover of National Geographic.
Do your boobs hang low,
Do they wobble to and fro,
Can you tie them in a knot,
Can you tie them in a bow,
Did your little poop machine suck all the life out of them
and leave them to look like tube socks filled with sand
with nipples you could use in the ring toss game at a carnival,
Do your boobs hang low?
Yeah, maybe it’s not as good as the original, but hell, neither are my boobs.
I just sneezed like ten times.
Which basically means I just peed myself like ten times.
An open letter to my vajayjay
Warning: the following letter is full of gross language, a lot of F words and crap men don’t want to hear. And you know if I’m warning you, this shit’s gonna be bad. Just sayin’. Still here? Okay then, here we go.
Dear Vajayjay,
We’ve been together for a long time now, so I feel like I can be honest with you. WTH happened? You used to be my trusted little gal but ever since I had the kiddos you’ve really let yourself go.
I used to be able to put down like a keg of beer and you’d “hold it” until I was up to my eyeballs in urine, but now I can barely get through the intro to Modern Family without soiling the sofa. Thank God for microfiber, right? I’m telling you, the person sitting next to me sneezes and a little sneaks out of me. WTF?
And here’s the thing, Gina, I don’t get it. Can we just pause for a moment here and ask who chooses to name their daughter Gina? It’s literally the nickname for vagina. But I digress.
Let’s just say for the sake of this discussion that I didn’t have two C-sections and that I actually shot two 8-pound bowling balls out my hoo-ha like Mother Nature intended. It’s not like I had my babies through the pee hole and it got all stretched out or something.
And that’s kind of beside the point anyways because I didn’t even have them through you. I got my damn FUPA sliced open so they could airlift those babies out of me. Is that what this is about, Vaj? You’re pissed at me because I didn’t use your F’ing birth canal? I’ve got one word for you: episiotomy. Or as I like to call it, cutting your vagina open with a pair of scissors. Here are five more words for you: Holy F’ing shit that hurts.
Anyways, let’s pull it together here. I’m 40, you’re 40, we’re not F’ing senior citizens yet. I refuse to buy Depends until I’m at least 65 (now if some angel out there were to drop off a box on my porch, I’m not saying I’d be totally against it, especially for situations like long car rides and county fairs that only have porta potties with names like Oui Oui).
So pull your shit together (can I say that to a vajayjay?). If that means you’ve got to do some kegels once in a while, go for it. I may not have time to exercise, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. ’Cause if you don’t start doing a better job I’m putting in a catheter. A big ole unlubricated one made out of sandpaper. Oh yeah, spell check, then how the F do you spell unlubricated? It’s just lubricated with un on the front of it. Duh.
And if that’s not incentive enough, V, how’s this for a threat? Hold my pee in from now on or I’m pulling out the big guns. Yup, say adios to your favorite vibrating toy. I’m taking out the double A’s and putting them into some lame ass remote control downstairs. And not a cool one like the universal remote.
Don’t you queef at me. I’m serious. Oh shit, I think I just crossed a line. Yes, even I have a line.
Love and kisses,
The bitch that owns you
The End
Holy crap, did you seriously read this whole book?! Thank you! You deserve a gold medal or something. Yeah, seriously.
How to claim your prize:
1. Go to your kid’s art supplies.
2. Find some yellow construction paper.
3. Cut out a round circle and write the words “gold medal” on it.
4. Find a safety pin and attach it to your shirt.
5. Clean up the construction paper before your kid sees it and wants to do some F’ing art project that’s all messy and shit and will require lots of help from you and that you’ll have to put up on the fridge even though it SUCKS ASS until a few days have passed and you can bury it at the bottom of the trashcan when your kid’s not looking.
6. Wear that shitty gold medal with pride and if someone looks at you weird tell them to F off and respect your ass because Baby Sideburns gave it to you.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my amazing husband who has always supported me in everything I do, even when it’s terribly embarrassing.
Thank you to my parents whose love and support has gotten me to where I am today.
Thank you to Lyssa Bowen who illustrated this book hilariously, and who took my endless comments like a champ.
And a HUGE-ASS (is that hyphenated? I’m not sure) THANK YOU to the people who supported my Kickstarter project. Without your help, I would never have been able to complete my lifelong dream of writing this book. I hope you like it.
And here is a special shout out to some of those awesome supporters (in no particular order). Thanks so much:
Domestic Goddess Crystalyn Huegen
Mini Boss of the Walter Household: Princess Zoe Rose
The best and most perfect and wonderful Gramma of Princess Serene, Susan Breding
Queen Doodlebug & Sir Tunkabutt McCormick
Supernurse Sandy Hall
Mommy Mojo
Neighbor For Life Stacey Slater (you know it sister!)
Erin “I-Wish-I-Lived-Next-Door-To-Baby-Sideburns” Pauls
Lisa Dwyer-Edison
JayDee
Sarah Holbrook Bolding (whose new name looks fabulous)
Grandma Cindy Alpert, who’s awesome for lots of reasons but especially because she gives me all of her People magazines
Katelyn & Hannah Tarnoff (two of the sweetest sisters on earth)
Bladerunners Vince, Isabel & Eric
Her Royal Canadian Majesty, Quinn Wyse
Lady Jennifer L. Campbell
Erin (The down-trodden servant to a house full of boys)
Abby Robinson
Kristin Gaspe Girl McCallum
Valerie “Scrunchies Forever” Mazzelli
Kamila Starzynski
Tracy “Toys” Donaldson
The Boy, Jelly Donut, and Baby Morea! (CIA)
ApeBro
saucyabby
Andrea Griffiths
Roberto+Natasha=MaverikDustinChad Mannino
Ashley Endicott
Lauren NeverAMomentToMyself McEwen
Karen Last, Tribe Leader
The Kwimmers
Lady Leigh Whiting
Melissa Hodge…Evalina’s momma <3
Sandra “Supermom” Lott
Lucyna Mackay Esquire
Deborah (you know!)…The Queen
The Mrs. Bradshaw
Mother Mad Scientist Lobdell
Kara Hoffmann Yako
Aisha Haiyoom
Jana Banana Warmiak
Angie Creasy
Barb “the best Aunt in the world” Santi
Alice Gomstyn, a.k.a. Mildly Inappropriate Mommy
The LindaDaveRonniJoshCamilleBrownieScampersCinnamon Clan
Bon “theboyzmom” Camm
Allison Larsson-Venello
Lori Farrell Magnificat
Timi Dury Williams
Lindsy Truitt
Shannon Mullen
Sabrina “The Real Housewife of Beaverton” Gonzales
<
br /> Awesome Queen Jessica Princess Kayla Madison Megan
Mandy Mae Flower
Shelly Schitzerpantz
Her Most Awesomeness Stacy Scanlon
Julie “Sparty Alligator” Peacock
Ari Pie & Lukie Bug
Slucas Ü
Kelly Ain’t No Plain Jane Smith
Natasha Anderson
Kim Radich
The amazing Kat Zisa
The Fabulous Myra McKinley
Samantha Nicole Schwarz
Peruvian Princess
Alli Esker
The Lytle Girls
Ilene Naddeo
Mackenzie from Raising Wild Things blog (www.raisingwildthings.com)
Julie De Guzman
April “Fiona” Kelly
L K Creekmur
Christine “Hot Mama” DeRosa
Courtney Bridwell
Michele & Princess Emily O’Connell
Samoan Queen Saleena Ghanny
Linda Drake
Amy Gers, who is always a source of inspiration
Jimmy, Robyn and Jase Maass
Princess Mia Amada Ramos
Jill Capolupo and Max Allen
Lori/Emma Petrillo
Camille Brashears the Incredible
Amber Harney
Jenny, CEO Team Dickinson
Supermom Erin Telford
Debra *The Lyrical Gangsta* Hudelson
Mother of Gus and Lanie
Beth Hannah
JKWhite
Her Royal Momminess, Michele Suerdieck
Gena Marie Lisanti
Mary Block
I Heart My Little A-Holes Page 13
