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I hate everyone

Confession Fridays, I hate everyone, Not Pleased, Sharing, You think you know but you have no idea

I’ve been avoiding you. And now I’ll explain. THEN we’ll watch the drag queens.

August 1, 2012

On behalf of me and Yoshe, we apologize for our dick-ness in our last post. I always know when I cross some sort of internet blog line when my friends and family start emailing me like “um, do you need some help?” And I never realize it when I’m writing it. But then I’m like, oh I get it. So I did some thinking. Why am I all worked up? It’s not just being sick and pregnant. It’s probably more. Why am I avoiding the internet? Why can’t I blog correctly. The answer to this is always the same.

I’m holding back.

Whenever I don’t feel the ability to be 100% honest in my writing and with you guys, I get dick-ish and develop writer’s block. It’s just how I work. Filterless or go home.

But all of this stuff has been happening in the world. Stuff that I feel so strongly about. SO strongly that I literally don’t have it in me to fight my point of view. I don’t have it in me to “educate” anyone on another perspective than their own.

And I haven’t wanted to write about any of it for fear of the comments. But that’s part of the territory right? Part of what I signed up for. Part of why you read this slop.

But I don’t want to delve into my personal beliefs about Joe Paterno and Penn State or Chick Fil-A or the election or if we should or should not burn somee cards to the ground already. Because simply by knowing others personal beliefs about all of these things have made me look at people differently (for right or wrong). And not just people but friends. Like specific friends.

See, there was a sort of blissful ignorance before the dawn of social media where you didn’t know anyone’s opinions on politics, religion or The Bachelorette. Now we know everything. And it’s impossible to not judge. You can’t forget once you know that your high school volleyball teammate now “likes” My Little Pony S&M or worse, Nickelback. Or you see your 60 year old Uncle “like” Hey Dude circa Nickelodeon 1988. You’re like whaaaat? And then the next time you see them like you’re like staring at the ground trying not to mention horses, ponies or dude ranches. It’s weird.

So for better or worse, I’m a little sad today. I hate to see hate. I hate to see discrimination. But just because I now “see” it now doesn’t mean it wasn’t always there. The blinders are just off now.

So I ccould blame facebook. But I can’t really do that. Because facebook also brings me things like this:

 

 

And for that social media, we thank you.

And also Andrea Logie who is the queen of the internet.

And please, as I didn’t go into the great depths of controversy here, I’m going to ask that you do not as well. Maybe in the future we’ll talk more but not today. And if you give me a contraction, I’ll have this baby in your bathtub.

Love and Lust,

MODG

On behalf of me and Yoshe, we apologize for our dick-ness in our last post. I always know when…

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I hate everyone, Not Pleased, Preg Stuff

Did you know that it’s Don’t Be a Dick Day? I’m trying to figure out how to opt out. Also your first peek at G’s big boy room.

July 30, 2012

F.

I’m sick again. Like with a cold. Pregnant with a cold. Vomit. Oh and speaking of vomit, I did that 19 times on Friday. When B was away in NY. I hate everyone. I hate you. I hate me. I hate B. But my problem is that I read on twitter today that it’s “don’t be a dick day”. So obviously I’m screwed. I’m not sure what happens if you are actually a dick or really who could police something like that. But every time I’m being dick-ish, I look over my shoulder for some sort of man in black in the corner. But I think even that man in black would understand that one has every right to be a dick when they have a cold and a toddler and ARE PREGNANT. Hopefully that man can explain this to B.

To B’s credit, I’m a pretty good preg. Ok that’s a huge lie. I complain constantly. BUT what is true is that I complain constantly when I’m not preg also so it’s all pretty neutral territory to him. So what do I do when I’m really REALLY sick? I have to amp that shit up. This usually ends in crying and fighting. Like, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ROLLED OVER *LOUDLY* IN YOUR SLEEP AGAIN. DON’T YOU KNOW I’M PREGNANT? or something like WHY *WON’T* YOU HAVE SNORING SURGERY TOMORROW? I NEED TO SLEEP, DON’T  YOU KNOW I’M PREGNANT? And then he’s like YES AMANDA I KNOW YOU’RE PREGNANT. And I’m like. I can’t believe you would talk to me like that, DON’T YOU KNOW I’M PREGNANT?

So it’s been awesome around here.

And the awesome just exploded when we finally started the project of clearing out the guest room for G’s new big boy room. And by guest room, I mean, B’s closet and sleeping quarters when he snores. When, being always. But do you know what this REALLY means? It means I have to make room in MY closet for B. I know, right? I mean I already made room in my uterus for his unborn child and now this? What’s next? Grow him a spare liver on my face?

So as I stuffed boxes and boxes and BOXES of clothes that are like circa 2002 spandex Forever21 -I’m going to Atlantic City and may hang out with a Real Housewife- dresses (what? I totally may need those again), I forced my dick of a self to remember that I’m not making room for B in my closet, I’m making room for another person in our house. And then I panicked.

Another person in this house. Plus 2 cats. Plus a toddler. Plus a 6’4” food eating beast. Plus a dick of a preg. Well I won’t technically be preg when the new person is here, but you get it. So I did it. I did what every self respecting woman dreads…cleaning out the closet.

It took me all day. I mourned the loss of my sparkles. I cried over pencil skirts that will never see my ass again. I hugged my 4” hooker heels and kissed them goodbye. All for our new person. And B I guess.

I did this 2 days ago. And I was ready for B to be so excited. I mean it’s like my child, DVR, breathing, my clothes. So B knew this was a big deal. I was ready for his OH MY GOD AMANDA THIS IS SO WONDERFUL AND I CAN’T WAIT TO MOVE IN reaction. And his WOW AMANDA YOU ARE SUCH A WONDERFUL WIFE WHO DID SUCH HARD LABOR WHILE PREGNANT reaction. I needed it.

Because my closet is small. See? And I had to clear out a whole shoe rack. Sigh… and the third of the closet you can’t see.

So 2 days later. Here we are. B’s side.

He hung up a pair of pants.

A PAIR OF PANTS.

My fashion history packed away and gone for a pair of pants that he probably borrowed from someone working at Target.

So you’re thinking…Ok, well maybe he didn’t have time to fill the closet. Maybe he was working on G’s new big boy room?

Here’s our progress on that:

Go ahead, pin it. You know you’re dying over the amazing design ness of it all.

But I suppose it will be hard to do much to the room since I’ll be sleeping there for the foreseeable future. Because I hate everyone. And my hips hurt. And I’m stuffy. And B snores too much. AND I’M PREGNANT.

At least my blow up tiger understands me.

Learn from this my friends. Don’t be a dick today. Unless you should be. Then go for it. And share with me how you are doing your part to be a giant dick.

xoxo

MODG

___________________________

Don’t be a Dick Day was brought to you by my super friends at the Cloth Diaper Outlet. I promise you I will be using these bitches when I need some new diaps for Yoshe. They have every kind under the sun and great deals. They also do a really good job of explaining all the different terminology behind the mystery that is cloth diapering. It’s a super great resource for newbies or veterans of the cloth world.
AND then buy old cloth diapers for store credit. That to me is definitely worth a peek.

For any order over $49 with the code “freediaper”, they’re giving away both a free diaper cover (our most popular brand) and a free prefold.  Promo is good anywhere in the world. Go forth and cloth.

F. I’m sick again. Like with a cold. Pregnant with a cold. Vomit. Oh and speaking of vomit, I…

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Eating Innapropriately, I hate everyone, Innapropriate, Not Pleased, pregnant stuff, Sharing, You think you know but you have no idea

This post is really just a means of revenge against B. But it’s also about poop. And cinnamon rolls.

June 13, 2012

B ate the last cinnamon roll. Do you know what kind of crime that is against pregnancy and the female population as a whole? Do you know the anger and resentment I feel burning inside of my Yoshi? It’s not MY fault that Yoshi NEEDS cinnamon buns to grow. But it’s your fault B for withholding food from your unborn child.

Now I sit here at my computer stewing with rage and furiously scouring pinterest for a suitable bake-able option that doesn’t require eggs or milk or anything else that we don’t have in our house. Oh, it can’t include LEFTOVER CINNAMON BUNS EITHER. In case you weren’t sure.

But as I sit here, I remember something that I’ve been meaning to tell the world about now for 3 years. So it’s clearly important. This could change your life.

I’m going to tell it via story.

One day I sat at my computer, at my desk, in my chair. 5 minutes later I pooped. Not ON the chair. That was a different day. The next day I sat at my computer and 5 minutes later I pooped. Later that same night, I sat at my computer and then I pooped. Interesting.

The next day, B used my computer and then I heard him in the bathroom. Oh I heard him alright.

I kicked him out of the computer. It’s mine. Before I knew it. I was pooping.

Fast forward 1 month.

Me: B, I have to tell you something weird.

B: Oh god, does it involve wigs on cats again?

Me: No, not this time. But definitely next time.

B: Ok what is it.

Me: I think we have a poop chair.

B: Go on….(B is very interested in talking about poop. More than I am)

Me: Ok, I know this is weird, but every time I sit at the computer, I have to poop. I think it’s the chair.

B: I wasn’t going to say anything but me too!

(ok STOP EVERYTHING. You need to know that B has majah poop problems. Like there are tales of him with enemas in his frat house. And I don’t feel bad telling you since he ATE MY LAST CINNAMON BUN)

Me: Are you serious?! B, do you realize the goldmine we are sitting on. PUN INTENDED BUT ALSO NOT BECAUSE THIS IS A SERIOUS POOP CHAIR!

B: Definitely. Don’t tell anyone.

Me: Ok. (all bets are off when the baked goods go missing B. I’m telling everyone)

So as you all know with my current pregnant with a Yoshi and also pregnant with butt nut triplets, pooping is high on my list now of super things. And the easier it goes, the better my life. Well friends, 3 years later and the poop chair is still in business.

I know, you’re dying to see the chair.

Ok ready?

Here it is

It’s from Ikea and it’s the Gilbert Chair. I really really hope people google search Gilbert Chair and find this post. So I think the secret is in the little dip you see in the back of the seat. I think it’s a poopular angle.

Now I know what you’re saying. MODG, don’t be dim, it’s just sitting in a hard chair. WRONG friends. wrong.

These are our other chairs:

We sit in these to eat dinner every night. And other sitable times. No poop.

And there you have it friends. The most important post that I have ever written. Actually, it’s not. I really just needed an excuse to talk about B pooping on the internet to get back at him for cinnamonbungate.

I leave you with this.

B ate the last cinnamon roll. Do you know what kind of crime that is against pregnancy and the…

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I hate everyone, Not Pleased, Preg Stuff, Vom stuff

butt nuts < trying on swimsuits < trying on maternity swimsuits. DIE.

May 29, 2012

Dudes, my mood is foul. I’m sitting on a pile of butt nuts for one. Yes Christmas came early in this pregnancy. By now the Rite Aid girl doesn’t even bother covering up the Tucks with the Lucky Magazine. She just gives me a frowny face like awwww. And I’m like SHUT UP you 16 year old nothing with an untainted butt. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. Tell me again how it’s fair that I have butt nuts and never even got to have a vaginal birth?

And that my friends is what completely terrifies me to actually have a baby be pushed out of my lower parts this time. Because I know a baby isn’t the only thing that’s coming out. I said this to a few hippies and they were like DUDE do you even know what sort of bad shit happens during a vaginal birth? And I’m like YES THANK YOU I DO. AND FROM WHAT I READ, YOU HEAL. My butt nuts have stayed with me for always now. They make me unusually unhappy. It’s like you’re carrying around extra friends in your butt that you feel with every step. So not really friends I guess. Just like nuts. Like I said.

And you may say, “yes MODG I can see why this has upset your day.” But do you know what’s even WORSE than sitting on a pile of butt nuts? Trying on bathing suits. And do you know what’s even worse worse WORSE than trying on bathing suits? TRYING ON MATERNITY BATHINGSUITS.

I mean really. THE worst.

So I go with my friend Box for our season MAC makeover. Really one of the few joys left for a lonely butt nut. And I decide to stop at Pea in the Pod to try on some suits. Trust me, if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. But G is obsessed and I mean obsessed with water. So at least 3 times a day we are in a pool or a sprinkler or a hose or a sink or a lake or a puddle or someone’s spit. And then we come inside and he’s climbing in his water table. Or he’s dumping a cup on his head. Really the water thing is out of hand. And our outdoor pool just opened. I can’t avoid it any longer. I have to go and I have to put on a bathing suit.

But I’m at the worst point in pregnancy where you don’t look pregnant…you look sick and fat. Not to mention the 4 straight months of self diagnosed bed rest has given my butt nuts a nice friend: cellulite. So I’m in these awful bathing suits. Like TANKINIS. Tankinis are the worst. THE WORST. It’s like, I really just give up so I’m slapping some loose fabric under my top. A one piece just won’t cut it. Other options for maternity swim? The swim dress. Yes, swim dress. If you’re 85 years old or a Dugger, you know what I’m talking about. But I did find a few one pieces. They either left a kangaroo pouch where a preg belly should be or they pulled up my ass so the bumpy parts hung out the side. Both were really stunning choices.

Also just because I’m pregnant, why do I have to wear bows and polka dots and tons of pink? I’m not blow up doll or an adult baby.

And let’s be clear that I tried Pea in the Pod first because they are stupid expensive and I thought that they would make me look cuter than Old Navy. F that. My friend box was like making squinty faces and was like…welll…..you could get a sarong. A SARONG.

So I came home and googled sarongs. Do you know what you find? Nothing. You find nothing because it’s not 1996 and I’m not in a TLC video.

So how do you manage to look comfortably covered but not like Old Granny Dumpkins at the pool when you’re barely bump worthy?

I don’t have the answer.

But I feel low. And as I typed this, I realized that I left my MAC makeup in the car. All day. It was 90 degrees.

I hate everyone and everything. And because that’s a common theme around here, it’s a set category (see below).

_______________________________________________

And because you stuck with me and let me bitch my butt nut off (man I really wish they came off that way) I have a treat for you and IT’S GOOD. The lovely ladies at Bad Kitty Bakery asked to advertise with me and I was like suuuuure you can. You just have to send me some “samples”. And oh they did. B was like WHAT THE SHIT ARE THESE AMAZING COOKIES? We literally almost divorced over who would eat the last one. You must check out their site here: Bad Kitty Bakery. Now here’s the best part. THREE of you are being sent these. I’m telling you, they would probably dissolve butt nuts on contact. All you have to do is visit the Bakery’s site and tell me in the comments what you would die for that they make. And the rest of you get 10% off your whole order by entering MODG1o. At least your day can be good.

LOVES and nuts for life.

MODG

 

Dudes, my mood is foul. I’m sitting on a pile of butt nuts for one. Yes Christmas came early…

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I hate everyone, Innapropriate, Mom Stuff, Not Pleased

Declaring war on all children everywhere? Not my finest moment.

March 7, 2012

Attention internet: Everything I am about to say can’t and won’t be held against me in the court of blogs. Why? Because I’m about to say some shit.

There are 2 general rules of saying stuff and not saying stuff that most of society follows:

1) Don’t say bad stuff about babies and kids. For example : “Man, I wish that small child would trip on his dumb ass elmo shoes and fall on his face”.

2) Don’t say the bad stuff TO the child. For example :”Go trip on your dumb ass elmo shoes, small child, and fall on your face”.

I’m here to say that for the foreseeable future as a mother, I am not sure if I can rightfully abide by these societal rules. But, I don’t think #2 counts if you whisper it in their ear all creepy like.

So I’m at the playground with G today. And hold on to your Lululemon ladies, we went to the RICH PEOPLE playground. You know the one with 4 levels, a concierge and hot tub. That one.

I had never been there before but B tipped me off to it. So I went with G in my jeans and t-shirt. What B did not tell me was there was a straight up uniform requirement of flare black yoga pants, pink tops and aviators. I saw one mom in a Juicy Sweatsuit and she was SHUNNED. Poor thing never stood a chance.

So it’s like the first really warm day in Philadelphia in eons. Every child was there west of the Atlantic. And it wasn’t just regular kids. It was  the dreaded “BIG KIDS”. We moms of toddlers say BIG KIDS like it’s a troupe of Nazis. “Oh we had to leave, there were BIG KIDS there”. “Yeah, I hid with my family and some rations under the floor boards because there were BIG KIDS coming”. You get it. But G was so excited so I was ready to take them on.

MODG VS BIG KIDS.

G is still such a little chunk. He’s pushing 30 lbs at 15 months and waddles like Frankenstein in a cloth diaper. It’s a mess and adorable. But he’s not fast and he will trip over his shadow. So I am still right next to him as he attempts to climb the 8 foot rock wall (I told you, rich people playground). All of the other kids are sans parents. I mean the parents are there, but they are on a bench talking to each other about Real Housewives of the Playground (moderately jealous). Regardless, it’s BIG KIDS, G and me.

That’s when it starts. The BIG KIDS swarm. It’s like they are a 70% blind and deaf species. They just GO. They don’t care who or what is in their way. They push and shove and fall and keep going. At one point a gaggle of them all went down a slide together, crushing another child who just wasn’t up to BIG KID standards. He was also in a sweater vest. I think  his mom was the Juicy Sweatsuit (yeah).

But then THEN they catch G in their tunnel vision. Little G is playing nicely with the X’s and O’s that spin around. When out of no where BIG KID in pink pushes my SWEET ANGEL MONKEY BABY to the ground. This is so BIG KID can play. She also says MOVE.

I stop breathing. I clench my fists. Never in my life have I wanted to throw a child off of a 6 foot landing before. Never have I saw such a child as my mortal enemy put on this earth to create fiery evil and all that is bad.

But I don’t do anything. Obviously. I’m not a monster (like her). I pick up G and brush him off and we move on.

The rage is still burning in me. You should know that I actually happen to like kids more than most people. I was an elementary education major. Me and kids are cool. So this was a whole new sort of illegal feeling.

And as G played nicely somewhere else, BIG KID in pink tapped me on the shoulder. OH NO SHE DIDN’T. SHE’S GOING TO START WITH ME. OK I’M READY. I CAN TAKE HER. I MEAN, SHE’S 6. SHIT, BUT I STOPPED WORKING OUT. I MEAN…

“miss? do you know how to tie shoes?”

(…oh maaaaaaaaan. i’m an asshole from another planet.)

“Yes sweetheart, let me help you. ”

“thank you!”

And off she went.

And I wondered what on earth is happening to me? She’s just a little girl. She doesn’t even know who Andy Cohen is yet. I’m an adult and I need to use my GD head. I also have to teach G how to not act a fool in his life.

Also one day G will be a BIG KID. And he’ll be an asshole to someone other than me. And I hope that mom will see G as just a kid who is learning to not be an asshole. Because that’s all that kids are. Mini assholes who are just learning to be regular. It’s hard work. I’m still working on it.

Then I hear it.

*SMACK*

THAT LITTLE BOY JUST PUSHED G TO THE GROUND. I WILL MAKE HIM WISH THAT HE WAS NEVER BORN AND NEVER WORE A DAMN SHIRT WITH ELMO ON IT. PLEASE KID. TRY ME.

F.

I’m going to get arrested in the next 10 years.

Is this just me? Do all moms hate other kids? Not hate I guess, loathe? Are we all giant assholes who stand no chance in teaching our kids to shed their asshole layer?

speak to me people. preferably before I’m in prison.

xoxo

MODG.

 

 

 

 

Attention internet: Everything I am about to say can’t and won’t be held against me in the court of…

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I hate everyone, Not Pleased, You think you know but you have no idea

On the 66th day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a burning sensation when I pee.

December 26, 2011

Oh you thought this would be another “Christmas is so awesome and look how cute my kid is and look at his presents and smiles and rainbows” post. You should know better by now.

We’re talking about my vagina again. Ok not actually my vagina, but more like it’s neighbors pee hole and pee pipe.

For those of you unaware (which is like everyone because who really cares) I have something called Interstitial Cystitis. Of course I do. It essentially means that you have ulcers in your bladder that get real angry every now and then if you piss them off. And then you pee fire until it’s un-angry. And Christmas day it was PISSED (pun).

 

Let’s rewind to circa 2001, location: Penn State, lifestyle: sorority. If I wasn’t at the gym trying to figure how to get my discman to not skip on the treadmill, I was at the campus doctor.

Me: I know it’s like 9th time in 2 weeks, but my pee hole is on fire again.

Doc: I JUST gave you a dose of antibiotics for your urinary tract infection

Me: I know, they aren’t working.

Doc: (side eye…the type of side eye reserved only for strippers and sorority sluts) Maybe you should give it a rest with your boyfriend.

Me: I DON’T HAVE A BOYFRIEND.

Doc: (million billion side eye)

Me: No, I mean, I’m not having sex. They are just from nothing.

Doc: Sure they are. Here’s another antibiotic. (vigorously washes his hands after I leave)

Me: Ultimate sads.

After a doctor offered to give me a hysterectomy  and 50 million more side eyes, they found out that I never did have any urinary tract infections, I had Interstitial Cystitis. It feels like a UTI, it looks like a UTI, it smells like a UTI (don’t act like you don’t know) but it’s NOT. It’s just the ulcers in your bladder getting all pissy (pun) at you. And you just have to like, wait it out.

My IC flares were in remission for FIVE years. That’s like pee hole trophy worthy. That is until Christmas Day 2011 when I peed out chinese throwing stars and I knew right away. It came back.

I tried to remember my old routine: hot water and baking soda on the pee hole, hot rice pack on the pee hole, some magic pee hole creme that lost the cap so I just squeeze out half the tube in the trash hoping that was cap-like…on the pee hole. And a prayer.

Didn’t work.

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF

Now I had to sit in the car for 4 hours on a hot pee hole.

Today I drew a line in the pee and called the super special IC doctor (regular doctors still give you side eye about IC). It was *super* easy to get a doctor on the phone the day after Christmas. And by super easy I mean it was NOT EASY AT ALL.

Finally I got the meds. All they do is numb the stuff. It’s no cure. But you pee orange and that’s delightful. The other med turns your pee purple. It’s really just a color preference.

So here I am, dreaming of an orange Christmas. JUST like the ones I used to know.

Oh yeah, Glovedhistoysanditwasmagicalandblahblahblah.

I’ll be doing a WANA thank you post shortly. My pee hole just needed to be heard. I really have no say in any of this.

If any of you have IC and can offer any super sassy remedies, I’m all ears/vagina holes.

And if all of this wasn’t exactly the Christmas spirit you were looking for. NEITHER WAS I. But because I like you, rest your eyes here and tell me what a damn sap I am now.

 

 

Oh you thought this would be another “Christmas is so awesome and look how cute my kid is and…

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