yes I SHALL covet, thankyouverymuch

Today? Another delicate subject that is forcing me to write about it.

This happens often to me. The Universe seems to converge and topics find their way to me. What choice do I have? I can't mock the muses can I? Of course I can't.

A reader and I had a little banter on my facecrack page the other day. I don't share this to single her out (which is why I blurred her name) or make her feel badly, but because it got me thinking about this subject.

So, my dear reader, I know you were kidding and we had a good laugh. 

But what this got me thinking was that I'm not exactly happy being childless. 

I know it probably doesn't seem that way because I try to make the most out of my situation. I believe in finding happiness where and when you can. I know that children may not happen for me and so I try to be happy with what I have. 

It's not just that I haven't had the opportunity to even try to motherhood yet. That is a big part of it. I'll admit. I'm bitter. I'm pissed that I've wanted kids for years now and it's just not happened for me. It sucks and I won't pretend it doesn't. 

But it's also because my hostile asshole of a uterus probably won't let me ever have kids.  If the damn thing didn't make me so miserable, I might feel sorry for it. And hopefully by now you all know my opinions on adoption and I fully plan on adopting some day whether I can pop out an earthling or not, except that adoption is incredibly expensive and I only hope that once day I can put forth the necessary funds to bring home a cute baby from the baby store. 

However, I'm also pissed that anything that has to do with my lady parts has to be a big ordeal. I'm prone to ovarian cysts. I have endometriosis and a tilted uterus. Which means that with my monthly business as usual comes a buttload of pain and misery. Birth control pills help immensely. Before them, I could count on not being able to walk for a few days because of the pain. In the 9th grade, I passed out in my school bathroom once, the pain was so bad. 

I also worry about the day I have to go off birth control to try to get pregnant. How much will it hurt? And will I even be able to get pregnant? I've had lots of close calls with boyfriends in the past. Plenty of chances to accidentally incubate a fetus. Yet, nada. And my gyno was not surprised. According to him, pregnancy will be my Everest. Which is why he wants me to start trying like 3 years ago. 

But short of tricking some troll from a bar or getting all too cozy with a turkey baster, there's nothing I can do about that is there? I still think I could hang around a fire station and hope some junkie drops off her baby. It could happen.

Which brings me back to my first thought. I'm jealous of you moms. I am. Insanely jealous. I'm jealous of your accidental pregnancies and your birth stories and photos of your babes. I want to inhale their little baby smell and stuff them in my uterus.

I know you're joking when you call your children monsters and lament how they drive you nuts. I know you're kidding. I hope you are. 

And I know motherhood is a difficult job. I'd go so far as to say the most difficult job. I'm not under any illusions about that. I don't need anyone to explain to me how it's harder than I think and I couldn't handle it. If I had a dollar for every mom who told me that, I'd be a rich woman and could buy all the babies I want a la Angelina. 

I know it's hard. Stop condescending me. I still want it.

But I'm not so narcissistic that I don't recognize that I still have it better than many women. I've never lost a baby. I've never had a difficult pregnancy. I've never been through any number of pains women the world over experience and endure. I sympathize with the heartaches and physical pain that I've yet to face. 

The point being, you never know what someone has been through or how someone is hurting.

The other day, I read this post over at MommyPants. Go read it. I'll wait.

This line cracked me in two: “I had a child die right after birth. What I wouldn’t give to be busy with three kids.”

Though I can't know that kind of pain. I empathize with it. I know a small inkling of it. I haven't lost a baby. But I carry around a certain emptiness anyway. 

What I wouldn't give to be busy with just one kid.

Public Service Announcement

Baby talk. Women who talk the baby talk to their boyfriends and husbands make me die a little inside. Every time I hear a woman make goo goo sounds to a grown man I want to slap her so hard her botox squirts out. But that scares me that the back splash might hit me and freeze my face. Which is...you know,,,terrifying. The kind of thing that happens in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

"I ca moo ma fae. Is fro-en. Hel me." 

"Well, you shouldn't have struck that alien pincushion. Everyone knows that's dangerous. What were you thinking?"

"I couln stan da ba-ay tal!"

Ladies, why are you making the baby talk? WHY? It's heinous. It is. You should not be talking baby talk with a grown ass man. Why? Because he is a grown ass man and he deserves to be spoken to like a grown ass man. (Is ass man starting to sound funny to anyone else?)

Look, I get the temptation. Maybe you want an infant (fuck, do I know) and your man seems to fill some of that space in your life. But I have news for you: THAT IS WRONG. Wrong. He is not your infant. No. No he is not.

If you really and truly must make the baby talk, get a pet. The more cute and cuddly the better. Might I suggest a hedgehog?

Or a bunny?

Or perhaps a pile of puppies and kittens?

Your boyfriend needs to be spared the baby talk. Trust me. Even if he acts like he likes it, I guarantee you he does not. He is LYING. 

It is no longer acceptable to call him pookie or snookums or cuddlebear. He is NOT a cuddlebear. He is your boyfriend. THIS is a cuddlebear:

No. Wait. No, that's not a cuddlebear either. No that is a very angry real live bear. Who wants to eat you. He's angry because you made the baby talk.

Don't squinch your face up and make googely eyes. And for the love of god don't pinch his fucking cheeks (unless we're talking ass cheeks, then by all means, squeeze away). 


Let's review. 


Baby:

Grown ass fine man:

Baby:

Grown half naked man:

Baby (dressed as a flamingo):

Grown man:

(Okay, that last one was a trick question, but that was to make sure you were paying attention.)

I think we're done here. I think I made my point. Men, you're welcome. Women, consider yourselves warned. 

Lonely Pathetic Woman Inhales Too Much Baby

Mmmm baby smell. Wait, let me back up. I'm sure I've lost all the guys by this point anyway. I have a long history of saying the word baby just so I can see men's asses, running as fast as they can, as if their shoes are on fire, leaving tracks like Back to the Future. Works like a charm. Except it sucks.

I just got home from a co-worker's baby shower. And I went to the shower a little punchy anyway. It has been one of those frazzly, stressy days where I spend every minute running from a meeting, to a meeting, watching the clock because my meeting is running over and I'm late for another meeting, and finding 10 minutes to shove a burrito down my gullet. God bless Mexico for inventing burritos. And whomever invented sour cream should go straight to heaven. I hate days like today. While each individual meeting has a purpose, the whole of the day leaves me feeling quite helpless. I can physically feel the emails piling up. The work that's not getting done just taunting me and my lack of ability to do anything about it.

So, punchy. I got to the shower a half an hour late because of a meeting, a meeting that went over an hour and so I was late for a phone meeting. Needless to say the phone meeting didn't happen. And I simultaneously love and loathe these things. Let me just for a minute or an hour tell you what I love. I love the baby clothes, the cute, soft little blankets wrapped around the tiniest socks ever invented. It's all so cuddly and precious and goddamn fucking adorable. Ohmygod! And then the baby. The baby. The BA-BY! That baby, like all babies, is just the most perfect little ball of perfection. Little toes and little mouth and little cheeks. I just want to gnaw on those cheeks. Those little cream puff cheeks. Gah! And do not get me going on baby smell. Baby. Smell. I could just inhale the top of a baby's head until the day I die. In fact, that's probably what will kill me. Overdose of baby smell. I can see the headline now: Lonely Pathetic Woman Inhales Too Much Baby. Yup, that's how I'll die. Good good in hell I love the smell of babies. That smell makes me want to stuff an infant into my uterus, curl that little smelly angel under a wing and sing Disney songs. In other words, baby smell makes me a mad woman. You've probably already gathered that, but this is a very real affliction. There is a chemical reason that women my age go batshit when they smell the top of a baby's head. It's so they'll start popping out offspring like pez.

And that brings me to why I hate these things. Baby Showers. It just makes me feel...lost. I can't help it if I want a baby like Charlie wanted a golden ticket. I can't help it that baby smell makes me batshit. I can't fucking help it and I can't do a damn thing about it short of investing in a turkey baster or stealing some unsuspecting infant from the grocery story (which, don't worry moms, I won't do). Maybe I can hang out in front of fire stations and hope for some unfit mother to drop one off. I've tried the Target! No luck there. I refuse to go to the WalMart on moral grounds. I mean, my dad always told me he got me at the baby store because I was the cutest one. But where is this damn baby store? I think he may have lied.

I exaggerate for effect of course. Of course. But, in truth, I do want a baby. I can't help it. It's a disease. It's called baby fever. And I am a single woman, with not much income, without much family, and absolutely no hint of a possibility of that in my future. It's just not going to happen right now or anytime soon. And I'm starting to realize that it could be a very real possibility that this just won't happen for me. Ever. And I really don't want to hear the older ladies coo like I'm a whiney child, "oh honey, you're pretty, it'll happen." blah blah blah. Like pretty has anything to do with anything. Like it has nothing to do with only attracting men who think babies are some kind of fungus. Only you can't eat them. Or smoke them. Bummer, right? What else is there in life?

More than food and partying, I tell ya.

all the single ladies

Hoo boy am I feeling crappy today! Between stress, the suckiness that comes with being a woman (I swear, god, when I die, you and I are having a little chat about that), the ri-goddamn-diculous heat, and a headache and nausea from what I assume is a side-effect of a flu shot (more on that in a bit), and the debacles of this afternoon, I am like the the ambassador of crap. No, the president of crap.

Yeah, so, flu shot. I have never, ever, had a flu shot in all my life. Between having dubious opinions about vaccines and also believing that human beings are supposed to get sick so that we can survive in this germ-filled world, I've never gotten one. But, with my BIG EVENT coming up, I figure I just can't get sick. I don't have time to be sick. No way no how, dude, can I get sick between now and the middle of October. Not happenin'. So, I caved into peer pressure (which, by the way, I totally survived in my teens, but I cave as an adult. WHAT is that about?) and followed two coworkers to get shots like lambs to the slaughter. But, now my head feels like Nine Inch Nails has taken up residence and feel like my stomach is hosting a miniature Cirque de Soleil. And my arm kinda hurts too, you know, where they stabbed me with the death juice.

And maybe it's not side effects. Maybe it's all psychological and the headache and nausea are one more thing I'm bringing up with god when I finally meet her, or him, or it (see my last post). Whatever god is, I do not approve.

But, enough bitching. I had intended to post something relating to the title of this blog, I really had. I know you are all going, what is UP with this crazy batshit woman?, so I'll get back on subject. I was going to say that when I feel like shit, I like things that make me laugh and since the world seems obsessed with one music video by one Beyonce, I'm going to share some fabulosity with you.

And okay, I realize that just posting a ton of videos is a complete blogging cop-out. But, you know what? Too bad. Do you really want to hear more about digestive pyrotechnics? Didn't think so.

I promise, even if you hate Sasha Fierce, you will find milk shooting out of your nose watching at least one of these, even if you don't drink milk. Really. That doesn't happen to you? Hrm, sounds like a personal problem.

First, a classic. I loves me some J.T.

And now some very sophisticated choreography that I think is really an homage to Miss Knowles and her dance stylings (this kills me):

And last, a little bit of genius. (and if you don't watch this show, OH MA GAH, you should):

And with that, I say adieu.