Monday, May 11, 2009


"Uch. Do you smell that?"

((Giant inhale)) "What? I don't smell anything."

"It smells like ass in here."

"Still nothing."

"How do you not smell that?"

"Well... have you showered today?"

"... Go to hell."

Wednesday, May 06, 2009


Wouldn't you know it? My pregnancy resulted in a baby. A girl. Nicknamed Smackaboy Punchass McMadigan. But we call her Mara for short.

April 15, 2009
10:41 a.m.
7lbs, 14 oz
20.25 inches

She earned those cheeks honestly.

And, wouldn't you also know? Her birth? Along with almost my entire pregnancy? Did not go "as planned." But that is a story for another day! Mostly because it's late (9 p.m. What? I have a kid now. Shut up.) and it's a long story. You'll just have to check back.

Saturday, May 02, 2009


Me: "The bottle won't work without these two pieces inside it."

Mom: "Okay, I get that but does anyone know what the ridges inside of the nipple are for?"

Dad: "Those are for her pleasure."

Me: "Wow."

Dad: "I know. God, I couldn't not say it, but now that I have I'm so embarrassed."

Monday, March 30, 2009


"Did you watch Joy's* video yet?"

"Yeah. You know we could do something like that when I have Punchass."

"We could."

"Would you want to?"


"... Just so you're aware, I'm not going to be nearly as nice as Joy was in her video."

"No. No, you most certainly will not."

*Joy is Adam's cousin who recently had her fourth baby.

Saturday, March 28, 2009


I threw my very first load of baby clothes and gear into the washing machine this week. And then promptly ruined a set of waterproof sheets by melting them to the dryer. It's true, I am THAT awesome.

I guess you could say I"m "officially" nesting. All I want to do is organize. So much so that I'm seriously tempted to go buy all those new organizational things I put on my registry last week because I can't seem to get past the sensation of needing them NOW. RIGHT NOW. TEN MINUTES AGO. Because god forbid her closet not be organized when she arrives. Don't you know she might JUDGE me if that were to happen? How could I possibly be a good mother if her clothes are in piles on the floor instead of carefully and lovingly folded and sorted by size and likelihood of her actually being made to wear that in tiny, yet handy dandy color coordinated bins?! HOW?!!!!

I also think I've picked out the outfit we're going to bring her home in. Maybe. I don't know. I'm sort of wishy washy on whether I believe that's actually all that important. I've yelled at the dog repeatedly for showing the slightest interest in her stuffed animals because they are not his and would become stuffing in mere moments should he believe otherwise. I have a mounting pile of trash off to the side where her dresser will (hopefully) eventually end up, and a chair I need to ask Adam to take downstairs along with his steamer because this is the BABY'S room now and nothing not baby related should EVER pass through these doors, how dare you even think that!

And then! Oh my god, what about an area rug? Rather than try to squeeze a changing table into a room that's obviously too small, I'm opting to change her on the floor. On the carpet. On the nice, light carpet. Obviously, I thought THAT through. So since babies are known to occasionally have exploding diapers of nasty colored poop, we should totally invest in an area rug. A brown rug. A brown rug like the one we already have that is currently being stored in the garage. The one that is probably coated in a fine layer of dust and bugs and mold spores. The same one I know for a fact the dog has peed on. Repeatedly. In blatant defiance WHILE LOOKING ME IN THE EYE. Maybe we could steam it?

These are honestly the things that go flying through my head. Whatever do you mean "is this what Adam has to live with?!" I'm not sure I like your tone. And you just ask him! Ask him how often I interrupt his video games to make him help me! HARDLY EVER! So shut your face. I mean I'M PREGNANT for shit's sake! Eight miserably months so. God, I want a freaking cookie.

Saturday, March 07, 2009


That there arrow would be pointing at the tip of her cute, little, button nose. And those there lips were most certainly inherited from me.

And this would be her angry face. Same angle as the previous photo, just tilted up so you can see her entire face. I think she's scowling because she is of the belief her mama should be allowed to have a donut. Either way, it's nice to see she seems to be growing into her chin.

Thursday, March 05, 2009


Because I'm sure you're all dying to know, I wanted to give you a little rundown of this pregnancy business thus far. In no particular order:

  • I am pathetically emotionally fragile. Case in point: I have cried in utter frustration while at work this week. Twice. So far.

  • My joints, particularly those in my hips and upper thighs, feel as though someone has been using them as a punching bag.

  • As a result of the above mentioned, I am now waddling. You'll shut the hell up if you know what's good for you.

  • I have been diagnosed with gestational diabetes and am now on a relatively strict diet and medication AND I get to stabby myself 4 times a day to note my blood sugar level.

  • Despite being told by my doctor and dietitian and the interwebs that it isn't my fault and there is nothing I could have done to prevent it, it still really bothers me that I'm broken, which leads me to crave comfort foods in the form of macaroni and cheese and donuts. Both of which I am not allowed to have.

  • My belly button is no longer centered on my belly, preferring to hang out off the the right.

  • I have cankles. Despite what all of you are thinking to the contrary, that is not at all funny.

  • My sinuses aren't playing nice resulting in the necessity of the very sexy, height-of-fashion bedtime accessory of a Breath-Right Strip. You know you want me.

  • I have yet to arrange a pediatrician or child care. Both of which I really should have before she's born. As in, THEY WILL NOT LET ME LEAVE THE HOSPITAL WITHOUT HAVING SCHEDULED HER FIRST DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENT.

  • Her nursery is STILL not done. At best, we have a place for her to sleep and a method by which to feed her (that would be mah boobies.)

  • I have consciously made the decision to wear brown shoes with a black top because at that point I was already dressed and they were more comfortable. However, this was not before doing it unintentionally because I FORGOT WHAT I WAS WEARING.

Thursday, February 26, 2009


No, the nursery isn't done yet. In fact, the only thing "done" about it is it's painted.

Even that needs touched up.

Now that I think about it, though, the blinds are hung as well, which accent nicely off the only piece of furniture in the room that is actually going to remain in the room. Which is her bookshelf. Which also happens to be the only piece of furniture yet purchased for the space.

That isn't to say we don't already have other furniture. Because we do. Kind of. See, we're planning to use an old hand-me-down recliner that was already in Adam's possession as a rocking chair in her room. But right now, it's collecting laundry in our bedroom. And preventing me from opening my closet door all the way.

Oh! I just remembered we also have a lamp! Except I may want a new lamp shade because the one I picked out doesn't quite match the recliner.

Yes, it does so matter.

As for the rest of the room, there is a twin mattress that I want to keep but am unsure where to store. And then there is the other half of the room that is entirely filled with junk. Don't get me started on the junk. Because there is a lot of junk. Junk in the form of hand-me-down baby toys and accessories. And in the form of Adam and my stuff.

We have entirely too much stuff. And about a third of it is occupying a large portion of Baby Punchass' room. I'll be terrified if it turns out to only equal a fourth of the accumulated "stuff". So will the garbage man after mom and dad come down to help clean/organize this weekend. Goodwill may potentially be thrilled, however.

I have to admit I'm a little daunted by the task before us, particularly since we're relying pretty heavily on the generosity of my grandparents to produce the bulk of the furniture we still don't have. Dear Baby Punchass: DO NOT COME EARLY.

Thursday, February 19, 2009


"My mom admitted to me today that my dad refers to you as his son-in-law."

"That's okay. I referred to Bean as my sister-in-law at work the weekend she came down."

"Mom said he didn't want that to put any pressure on anyone about anything. It's just the way he feels about you. So I told her you were obviously the favorite."

"What did she say about that?"

"She laughed and said you were in the top three. Then I got her to confess that she thinks you have a cute butt. I'm pretty sure that means I win."

Monday, February 16, 2009


*I've decided I want to rename this post "THE SEXIEST SISTER". The story really just demands it.

If you've known me for any length of time, it shouldn't come as a big surprise that I don't have a very high tolerance for shame.

Unfortunately, I also happen to be almost 7 months pregnant. This means that everything inside my gut is crowded. Excessively crowded. So much so that even the slightest adjustment in her position means I'm generally struggling to inhale fully or skipping off to the bathroom for what typically doesn't equal much relief.

Even more unfortunately, I happen to have one hell of a head cold. A cold that leads to copious sneezing.

You may see where this is headed.

That's right. I sneezed. And because I'm nearly 7 months pregnant, that sneeze had the awful effect of making me pee a little. But apparently not little enough. Because I left a mark ON THE COUCH. And Adam just so happened to be sitting next to me. His initial concern as I jumped up yelling "goddamnit" turned to humor with a touch of slight disgust as he was made privy to my problem. I have to give him credit though. While I was busy changing my pants, he wiped up my spot and kept the mocking to a minimum.

And nothing says Happy Valentine's Day like cleaning up your loved one's piddle.

Monday, February 09, 2009


Dear My Job,
Don't get me wrong. I'm appreciative you exist at all, the economy being what it is. I'm relieved that there isn't any chance you're just going to up and leave me hanging at some point in the near future. Hell, I even like a number of the people I get to see at your place every weekday. I'm not dense. I realize my current situation could be much worse and I sincerely do not wish for that to be the case.

However, that being said, I have to admit that I really, really hate you.

Please, don't take offense. It isn't you. Honest. Cross my heart. Scout's honor. It's me (except, you know, all the time when it really and truly is you).

The Management

Thursday, February 05, 2009


"Can you hand me the sock that's stuck in my boot?"

"You were wearing socks?"


"You were wearing socks."


"When did you go out?"


"So you're re-wearing socks?"


"So, ew."

"You re-wear the socks you use to walk the dog in ALL THE TIME."

"Yeah, but those are thermal socks. Those are special."

"And have you even washed the outfit you wear to walk the dog ONCE since you've taken over dog-walking duties?"


"More than once?"



Wednesday, February 04, 2009


I took a mental health day from work today. Unfortunately I made this decision after ATTEMPTING to make it to work, seeing that the direction I needed to go on the highway was wall-to-wall traffic, attempting to turn around and go home only to have to repeatedly pull into driveways to turn around because all left turns anywhere I went seemed to be illegal, and then sliding into some guy's tail end as I pulled off an exit.


He was greeted by a crying, blubbering mess and decided that it wasn't worth it since no harm, no foul (There was no damage to the back of his truck and I was such a mess I didn't even bother to look at the front of my car, and in fact, hours later, still haven't.) and let it go at an apology.

Which is a pretty good analogy for how I've been feeling recently. And also why I haven't been writing.

I'm stressed. I'm overwhelmed. I haven't felt like I've gotten a reprieve from any of it. So the stress just builds and builds until something little and insignificant, something that doesn't really cause any damage, happens and I'm a blubbering mess. All of which makes it very difficult to be funny and entertaining. And to top it off, I'm beginning to feel like what I have to say about me doesn't really matter to people anymore. I'm beginning to feel like my worth is getting wrapped up in how Baby Punchass is doing, and she isn't even here yet.

But that doesn't make that statement any less selfish, so just add another dose of guilt to what I'm already feeling.

It's hard to even feel like writing anything, let alone trying to be funny and entertaining when I'm feeling like this. And I don't know how to make it stop.

Thursday, January 22, 2009


"Do you want a freezer-pop?"


"Could you get me one, too?"


Monday, January 19, 2009


Did you know, Dear Interwebs, that my dog has a horrid, icky, evil mommy? It's true. Just ask him. This is what he'd tell you:

It's true! I has a horrid, icky mommy and she had the audacity to perform numerous atrocities against me ALL IN ONE DAY and for what?! Nothing more than doggy hygiene. And because (she CLAIMS) I was stinky. Very, very stinky.

Nope, that horrid bitch wasn't content to just DESHED me (which she'll claim I should have LIKED because I've been ichy recently. DON'T SUCCUMB TO HER LIES!), she had to go and brush my teeth. Sure, that might not have been so bad because the doggy toothpaste tasted like vanilla, but IT'S THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING. But, I'm an amicable dog. I was prepared to let it go at that. But then... oh, but then. Daddy (he who is my shining light and savior and favorite-est person in the whole of the wide, wide world), daddy was gone away without mommy (as if she even deserves that title anymore). It was just me and then wench. Oh, she pretended like it was any other night, cooking smells-better-than-the-crap-they-feed-me dinner and watching TV. She was just doing it to lure me into a false sense of security until, all the sudden, she pounced! She snatched my poor, helpless self off the couch and plopped us into the tub where she CLOSED US IN. And then... and then that MONSTER turned on the water.

Now this next part, this next part is when it gets hard for me to speak because that bitch, she violated me. She doused my glorious fur in water and scrubbed me all over. She touched EVERYWHERE. Fur that it had taken me MONTHS of hard, long labor and effort to get smelling so ripe, she washed it all down the drain with some suds and a cheap plastic cup full of water.

And then, finally, after what seemed like hours upon hours of torture, she finally released me from my white prison... only to CONTINUE to pin me in to bathroom. I swear to you, as daddy is my witness, I did my best to discourage her by shaking myself until not a single surface in that blasted room remained dry, but she was not to be daunted. She came at me then with that damned towel and she rubbed me. She rubbed me all over. And I'll confess. It may have been that that my superior doggy mind truly snapped from her cruel water torture because as soon as she opened the door, I scurried away, slipping and sliding all over the hardwood floor. And when she was preoccupied drying up the bathroom floor, I got her back by peeing on the area rug.

It was much longer until my savior and light came home and do you know what that evil, wicked mommy did then?! She tattled on me, as if poor, tormented me was the one to blame! Luckily daddy saw through her twisted manipulations and just laughed at her.

So here I am before you, traumatized by the whole ordeal, barely able to function, struggling to eat (maybe a wee bit of an exaggeration) but I will admit. One good thing did come out of all of this. After daddy laughed at mommy, she let me, poor and damp though I was, lay on his side of the bed while he was downstairs eating dinner.


Sunday, January 18, 2009


My dear, sweet, pretty Interwebs. Loves of my soul, lights of my life, and, dare I say it, winds beneath my wings. Can I level with you? I can level with you, right? I can tell you a secret, a story, a tantalizing tid-bit? A tid-bit that, should it be recounted by Adam, if ever he were that brave, might make it seem as though I maybe, sort of, kind of lost my mind today.

Now to be fair, anyone in my position would have reacted in a similar fashion. Hell, you might not even have to be pregnant. Or overly emotional/hormonal/in furious need of emptying your bladder. In fact, I cannot fathom anyone anywhere who would NOT agree with my scorching anger.

You see, Adam and I were driving home from lunch, a lunch in which I consumed quite a bit of fluid. It was about the time we GOT INTO THE CAR that I realized I was going to be hard pressed to hold my bladder the whole way home. But I was determined. I was persistent. I already IN THE CAR.

And so we drove. And we drove, and we drove, and we drove. And while we drove, Baby Punchass took the opportunity to River Dance upon my ever expanding bladder and Adam took the opportunity to show me just how many potholes there are along that particular stretch of 75 south. And despite it all, I persevered. I held it and did not so much as moisten the seat as we arrived in our ridiculously bumpy driveway. I held it while I chased Adam toward the door and urged him to HURRY THE ---- UP ALREADY, LADY WITH A BABY. I held it while I tossed what was in my hands but not so long as to remove my coat. And I continued to hold it as I lifted the lid... only to find the disgusting, dirty remnants of the Roommate's morning routine (and by Roommate, I am not referring to Adam or Guinness).

I'll confess. At this point, I was pissed, not only because I had to pee more fiercely than anyone has ever had to pee before, but because THIS WAS NOT THE FIRST GODDAMN TIME THIS HAS HAPPENED. I slammed the toilet seat down in disgust and flushed the contents before turning to punch at the bathroom door in frustration.

I took a jagged, seething breath and it was then I realized the flushing sound? Wasn't happening.

I lifted the lid to find a clogged and swirling mess, and it was at that point that what Adam may refer to as me LOSING MY MIND happened. I STORMED out of the bathroom door screeching and yelling and throwing my coat at the couch while Adam looked at me with what can only have been a mixture of concern and apprehension.


"Okay. Calm down."


Adam hastily made his way into the bathroom, emerging but a moment later.

"Okay. Toilet's fixed."

And I stormed my way back into the bathroom, still utterly disgusted and mumbling the entire way. Perhaps even glaring through tears of frustration and loathing. And you want to know what? I'm STILL disgusted. He is a goddamn adult. A goddamn adult who has lived with OTHER PEOPLE his entire life. A goddamn adult who should know how to FLUSH THE ----ING TOILET after EVERY use. And since he DOESN'T, since he seems to have no issue being disgusting and irresponsible and a general pain in the ass, I see no reason to be nice.

Except it makes Adam mad when I'm not nice.

So I'm forced instead to ignore his existence as best I can, and roll my eyes behind his back whenever he opens his stupid freaking mouth, and pray and beg that his ploy to buy a house works and that he will, in fact, be gone by the end of the month (never to be invited back should I have my way). Dear God, please make him be gone by the end of the month. I don't think my questionable blood pressure can take much more.

Thursday, January 15, 2009


"That guy called me your wife! How scandalous."

"I know. My real wife will be pissed if she finds out."

"... You know, you take quite a few liberties with me. You better be careful because one day I'm going to be in a mood and you're going to wake up without a face."

* * *

"You realize our first big fight is probably going t be over Baby Punchass."


"We'll both be sleep deprived, I'll be overly sensitive and emotional, and the claws will just come out!"

"Well, you just be sure to come and apologize and I'll do my best to forgive you.

"I know you don't think so, but I will cut you."

Saturday, January 10, 2009



Um, yeah. Hi.

So the blood pressure was better (not great, just better) on Friday which is relatively expected since I was freaking the hell out about it before going in there. (See: mah last post) What that means for you is Smackaboy Punchass McMadigan (yeah Barnes!) and I are fine. For now. It's a condition they would like to continue to keep an eye on because it can very quickly turn into Not Fine (ie - another appointment Thursday) so the nurse gave me several suggestions, including a list of symptoms to look out for.

Now, I don't know if you know this about me... but I'm a slight closet hypochondriac. What that means is that I don't typically freak out over your everyday, mundane, run-of-the-mill symptoms. Unless you give me a list of what to look out for. So that headache thing? I hadn't suffered a headache in WEEKS but lo and behold, it is now something I need to look out for so guess who's had a mild headache the last two days? BECAUSE I'M THINKING ABOUT IT CONSTANTLY. And guess who has a mild feeling of nausea because the doctor asked if I'd had any sudden vomiting? Yeah. That would be me. Who also DIDN'T mention to him the out-of-the-blue vomiting I did over Christmas because I didn't think of it at the time. WELL, I'M THINKING OF IT NOW.

Also blurred vision? Not really, unless you count that my prescription feels just a touch off. (They don't.) Or tingling in my fingers. (Not related.)

I guess what I'm attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to say is: I'm fine. Baby Punchass is fine. There is certainly a chance that we could both end up Not Fine, which is a limbo-like existence that can and is driving me insane, but I know what to look for. I've cut out ice cream (godDAMN I want me some ice cream) and I'm trying very hard to cut back on salt. I'm doing what I can with a (potential) condition I really have no control over.

And she's still enjoying kicking my bladder.

Friday, January 09, 2009


It's 4 a.m.


I'm sitting up in the living room awake with a headache, presumably caffeine induced (I know! I'm pregnant and I didn't entirely STOP drinking caffeine?! I must be a horrid, ugly monster of a mother who doesn't deserve a baby because I obviously can't make the proper choices to ensure her safety and well-being. Yeah, well, f*ck you and your judgements, whatever the hell they may be, and might I add I rather enjoyed that tea I just had to make up for the caffeine I haven't had in four days), and a backache.

Yes, the headache is subsiding after drinking that aforementioned cup of tea. No, not before making me bitter and resentful. BECAUSE IT IS 4 IN THE GODDAMN MORNING.

And honestly, had I not had the doctors visit I had this afternoon, it probably wouldn't be bothering me quite this much. A pain in the ass, yes, but not necessarily fraught with worry and speculation (except if you know me at all you know that's a dirty, rotten lie because all I do is worry and speculate).

I was doing so good you guys! I really was! Sure, I may have felt huge and disgusting but up until week 20, I'd only gained 4 pounds. FOUR! Between then and this afternoon... I gained 15. IN FIVE WEEKS. And sure, the holidays but other than a bag of candy and a few excess cookies, I really can't think of how I did so much worse these last 5 weeks than I did any of the previous 20. Especially when I weighed myself a week ago and, unless my mind is going, was only expecting a 5 pound gain. (Holy frickin' god, how could I have been that far off?)

But wait, there's more! I have high blood-pressure. High enough they want me to come in today (tomorrow?) to have it checked again. And then again in a week.

Now, combined with the fact that I can't sleep because of a headache, albeit one that I 95% guarantee is from CAFFEINE WITHDRAWL (most notably because it eased up remarkably AFTER I DRANK SOME CAFFEINE), there is still the 5% chance that I might have preeclampsia. And trust me. I spent the first part of my early morning doing some quick research and know that should I have it, there isn't anything I could have done to prevent it, but that doesn't make me feel any better. That isn't preventing me from freaking the hell out for all of you to witness while I sit alone in the living at (now) 4:30 in the morning crying. And I know full well Adam is going to read this at work tomorrow and probably be upset that I didn't waking him up but why should both of us be tormented by the demons in my head when it will suffice to just let me stew in them?

And the crying is bringing back the headache.