And for all you baby bump stalkers. Here is the proof you need. You can tell our family that your apocalypse shelter was a good investment. The dark one is coming!!
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Womb Shark @ 15 weeks
Hiatus Update
Hi all,
I’m back.
Needless to say, things have been busy. I have found it harder and harder to write as my days seemed to get shorter and shorter. Before I knew it, I had notes stacked up about things I wanted to write about, but just didn’t have the time. Usually writing is an escape for me. My ramblings make me giggle and help me make sense of the crazy world around me. The fact that some of you like to read along is only icing on the cake. Last night I came across another blog I read intermittently and the author had posed a “challenge”. Write 500 words a day for the next month. No edits, no proof-reading, just write. So today starts my first day. I missed yesterday as I came across the article so late. So be prepared. Remember, I’m not proof-reading so you’re not allowed to judge.
When I think about the biggest thing that has happened since I last sat down to write, only one thing comes to mind. I’M PREGNANT! Yup. You read that right. This bitch is preggers. Now, before you rush to the window to check for flying pigs or call hell to inform the devil he will need a winter coat because hell is about to freeze over… breathe. That was the advice I got from my friends when I found out, so I impart this wisdom on you. You OK now? Good. Now back to the crazy shit at hand. Yep, I am pregnant. I always said that if I were to spawn, the little womb shark would most likely be the Antichrist and was sent to supervise the apocalypse. So if you need to repent, I would start now.
How the hell did this happen you ask? Well when a man and a woman really love each other… blah… blah… blah. I will save you the awkward story you probably got from your parents and just tell you that my birth control failed. NuvaRing, you bastard. So after realizing my period was a couple of days late, I decided to take a pregnancy test to prove to myself that I was just fine and I could stop being an anxiety ridden crazy women. Skip forward 3 hours to me curled up on the bathroom floor, positive test in hand, sobbing my eyes out, and telling myself my life had just ended. Poor Kevin. He walked into the room with a look of pure fear. Sweat pouring down his face. I looked and him and said “I’m sorry”, as if I had climbed on top of myself and gotten pregnant. He sweetly said he was going to help me get off “that cold floor” so I could cry on the couch.
So here we are, 15 weeks into a pregnancy. My tummy has “popped”. Which is actually what people say when you don’t look pregnant, but you can’t zip your jeans. I am in pregnancy limbo, where I may look pregnant one second and the next I look like I ate too much cake. YAY!???? So welcome to my journey. At least I don’t have to suck in my stomach anymore.
Pinky swear me! Just pinky swear me, ok?
Dog Life
The DMV Is Satan’s Address
Recently, I had to go to the DMV, which is almost as bad as going to the dentist. I was dreading it, with every fiber of my being. Yet, after being in TN for a couple months now, it was about time I get another photo taken in which I resemble a child molester. I was well overdue.
The office was a small brick building, and the waiting area smelled of old people, pine-sol, and death. I could write the trite “I went to the DMV and waited forever… blah blah blah” kind of post, but that wont be necessary. I was in this Bermuda Triangle of hell for about 3 hours, and in this 3 hours the following events happened: You can’t make this shit up…
– I was greeted by a woman with yellow, blue, and green hair. Her nails were long enough to be classified as deadly objects, in much the same way as Freddy Krueger’s claw glove would be. Her fake eyelashes were not glued correctly, were too large, and made her look like something out of Pan’s Labyrinth.
– The only 2 employees present made it abundantly clear that they hated each other. They passive aggressively traded snide comments while making the already impatient patrons wait even longer.
– There was a small unsupervised child running around. The parents, who spoke no English and only knew how to smile and nod, were a complete waste of parental authority. Shortly after the child demon snuck behind the counter, ate one of the employees lunches, and turned off the ID printing machine (which made us all wait another 25 mins for it to warm back up) I decided to herd the blood sucker back to its parents. I proceeded to loudly and with a huge grin on my face tell them “YOU ARE BAD PARENTS! YOU SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO PROCREATE! PLEASE RESTRAIN YOUR TINY BEAST!”. They responded only by smiling and nodding…. not having a damn clue what I just said.
– 2 nuns walked into the DMV (no this is not the start to a bad joke). They were in full garb and only spoke Italian. The woman behind the desk only spoke in Ebonics. Needless to say the conversation was hysterically pointless.
– The 2 employees I referenced earlier decided that getting into a full out brawl was appropriate. It concluded with one woman grabbing the other woman’s weave right off her head because it’s not a true “hood fight” until someone’s weave gets yanked.
Somehow I managed to survive this trip without stabbing someone or going to jail.
But there is always tomorrow.
Breakroom Microwaves
The Boogieman exists, and you all know it’s true.
I am convinced that monsters come from company break room microwaves. One look into that abyss, you know something ugly, slimy, and bitey resides in there. I fear that if I ever need to warm my leftovers, I will need full chain-mail and a sword in order to protect all my vital parts.
I wonder if “it” would be discouraged if I yelled a battle cry every time the buzzer dings and it is time to remove my reheated Chicken Parmesan.
TALLYHO!!!!!!!!!!!!
Everyone Poops
Sanctuary. You know the place. That sacred area where you can be you. Just you. No judgment, no worries, no concerns. No, I am not talking about church. I am talking about the bathroom. Don’t pretend that you don’t know exactly what I am talking about. That sacred place where you can let loose. Make those noises that only your cat is allowed to hear, and that’s only because he is incapable of speech and vocalizing judgment. Recently I discovered that my office at work is directly across the hall from the “pooping bathroom”. Don’t look at that sentence as if I had typed it in Elvish… You have used that bathroom. The highly sought after private bathroom that gives you the comfort of home.
No one wants to poop in a stall within an occupied bathroom. Just think back, to that one experience that was so horrific, it has made you poop shy for life. Maybe it was in high school, maybe in a busy mall bathroom, or even in silent library. “OhMyGod,” you think to yourself. “I can’t go with these people in here! What if I make loud noises? What if I make the bathroom smell? They may see me or recognize my neon pink shoes when I leave?! It’s social suicide.” You contemplate sitting silently until they leave, but it seems they are doing the same thing. It’s now a pooping standoff. This is the most awkward moment of your life thus far. So you go with plan B: distraction. You begin coughing, tapping your foot, and rolling and unrolling the toilet paper – anything to cover the sounds of what is happening in stall #2.
My office at work is located in an distant part of the hospital, and it’s even more obscure when wandering the halls at 2am… and it is directly across from a single bathroom. Over the past month I have noticed a pattern of people sneaking away to this bathroom. Now, in their defense, my office has been unoccupied for about 4 months… thus, they are not used to sharing that hallway with anyone. Still, I have heard things that can’t be unheard and every time I leave my office, the smell that permeates the hallways is like getting punched in the face with a diaper. The other day, there was a poor soul locked away in the pooping bathroom. The noises coming from under the door sounded like a cross between food poisoning and World War III. Shortly thereafter, I was paged to another part of the hospital (to save a life of course!). As I exited my office, so did the occupant of the pooping bathroom. It was a nurse I worked with… all 102 lbs of her. I am sure I gave her the look of “How the fuck did that much noise come out of you?? Impressive!” And after the very brief, yet very awkward meeting, she scampered off with a look of sheer terror. It’s been over a week. She refuses to make eye contact with me. I would not be surprised if she quits her job in order to avoid me for the rest of her life.
Well Bless Your Heart
Dear Minions,
I apologize for my lack of written communication. In the past month I have quit my job, moved to Nashville, started a new job, and had to update my plans for taking over the world. You see, things here in the south don’t quite work the same as they do up north. So my life had to be updated accordingly.
Now, since I have moved, I have done nothing but judge those around me and question my choice to move. The people here are a strange breed. And to top it all off, they don’t get me. At all. My sarcasm and blatant lack of “ladylike qualities” have certainly gotten me a couple of wide eyed stares. You would have thought that people in the south would LOVE a woman who says “FUCK” a lot. Anywho, I have decided to enlighten you about the south with the use of my cynical observations.
People DO “mosey” here. Mosey: Verb, to move in a leisurely, relaxed way. In other words, people take their goddamn sweet ass time to do anything and everything. Absolutely nothing is rushed and no one cares if you are on a schedule or time crunch. This is has caused me to scream profanities on more than one occasion. This seems to be most ubiquitous at stop signs. People of the south ACTUALLY stop at stop signs. And ACTUALLY wait the full 2 seconds before pushing on the accelerator. This has caused me to spew so many curse words in succession; I may have, at one point, summoned Beetlejuice and Satan simultaneously.
When driving south, there should be a big fucking sign that says “Welcome to the bible belt… turn back while you still can!” The other day, I was approached by a woman who looked to be 107 years old. She walked towards me in a parking garage, her eyes lit with rage. Confused (and slightly excited), I waited for her to scurry her way across level 5 and I was thoroughly disappointed when she didn’t slip and break a hip. She quickly went into a rant on how I should not be allowed to drive my car in public due to the nature of my car emblems and bumper stickers.
The following are the reasons why most Christians don’t like my car… or me:
Yes, that is a zombie chasing a family.
All Hail The Flying Spaghetti Monster!!
Darwin Fish.
T-Rex eating a Jesus fish.
I tried to explain that just as she could be offended by my Darwin Fish, I could also be offended by a Jesus fish. Yet I did not feel the need to approach every Bible Thumping Christian on the road. She proceeded to tell me that she clearly needed to pray for me. My response: “You can pray for me, I’ll dance naked in the woods for you.”
Most vocabulary, verbiage, and adages do not make sense to me. Such as:
- A “buggy” is a shopping cart.
- If someone says “I’ll carry ya there”, they actually mean “I’ll show you where that is”, and it’s no reason to become defensive in thinking someone is going to touch you. Automatically taking the ninja stance is probably not necessary. I only wish someone would have informed me of this before I frightened that sweet little old man with my Kung Fu impersonation.
- “Y’all” is singular, “All y’all” is plural, and “all y’all’s” is the plural possessive.
- If you hear a southerner announce “Hey y’all, WATCH THIS!”… You should start videotaping because they’re about to become famous on YouTube.
- If there is snow in the forecast, even a state away, it doesn’t matter. School will be cancelled, the whole city will be on alert, and your presence is required at the local grocery store to purchase milk, eggs, and other things you already have in your home…. Just in case of a snow-pocalypse.
- “Fixinto” is a word. And no matter your education level, you will use this daily. As in “I’m fixinto go to lunch.”
With all that being said, welcome to the South. Please set your clocks back 150 years.
Nothing says “lovin” like a face tattoo.
No seriously. Wait. What? Why in the hell do you have stars on your cheeks and a Tweety Bird on your neck?
Don’t get me wrong. Body art is something that is very personal, but just like everything in life, if I think it’s ridiculous, I will make a joke out of it. Usually I would assert the position of “Oh you have tattoos? Let me remove all my clothes.” Luckily for me, my boyfriend has quite the assortment of ink, none of which include Looney Tunes, Calvin and Hobbs, or something randomly picked off the shop’s wall on his 18th birthday, so this is a hypothetical letter to the man who just decided it was OK to hit on me while I am at work:
Dear Raul,
I am calling you Raul because I just happen to think that is a funny name. What about me quietly typing at my desk said “Please come interrupt me”? Or tell me how “I gots it goin’ on”? I must warn you, I am most lethal when I am calm and smiling. Yet, if you feel the need to show off in front of your “bro”, I cannot stop your stupidity. Though, I have the sudden urge to hit you in the face with a Clue-By-Four, this was even more evident as I walked away. You must have misinterpreted me quickly evacuating the area as an invitation to follow me and continue rambling about your stupid life.
So….again….for the 9th time, I will NOT be attending this “thang” at the bowling alley. And as for that Monster Energy tattoo on your shoulder… It really tells me what I need to know about your addiction to meth and predilection for poor life choices .
Sincerely,
Try me asshole, I define unstable.
Babies…. Nuff Said
Today while perusing my FaceBook, I was bitch slapped with reality. Here I was writing about hating babies and using their tender bodies to make a stew, but a good friend was out there and he desperately wanted to start a family. I contemplated that maybe he was just hoping to start a good recipe collection as well, but I am certain I am wrong. This about HIM, not me.
Adam and I met in middle school, WAY BACK IN THE DAY ya’ll. Even then I knew he was meant for great things. Clearly he was a patient and tolerant person. He was friends with me after all, and that is no easy feat. He kept me awake through English class and we laughed while hanging out with mutual friends. He was the most kind spirited person I had probably ever had the pleasure of knowing. As the years went on, as they do, our lives went in different directions. Thanks to the joys of FaceBook, I was able to stay in contact and follow his life. And one day he fell in loooovvveee. **Cue the song “Unchained Melody”**
Adam met Eric about 7 years ago, and in the most fabulous of fashions, he proceeded to slam the door on the love of his life on the first date. Literally people, not figuratively. Adam was set up on a blind date and had one of those terrific freak outs when he saw this man on the other side of front door. He slammed the door out of disbelief. He stood there shocked, like someone who had just opened the door to see Publishers Clearing House. Yea, I would have paid to see it too. When I play it out in my head, there is also a shriek when he opens the door. Like a 13 year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. And maybe he faints…. Speaking of fainting, why do fairy tales make fainting look so romantic? I’m sure that shit hurts. Gravity doesn’t fuck around. I digress.
As a social worker, I have to legally supervise adoptions and every time I am moved. This Grinch’s “small heart grew three sizes that day”. When love is shared, love grows. These two amazing people have more love in their pinky fingers than most people have in their whole body. During this holiday season, please look around at those you love. Your family. Your friends. Realize that each relationship is a blessing. I am writing this because I believe with every fiber of my being that these 2 amazing people deserve to have all the happiness in the world. They deserve a family. They deserve to love a child. They deserve to raise that child. They deserve sleepless nights, 3am feedings, and changing shitty diapers. They deserve to have that child hit puberty and hate them for no reason. They deserve to have that child come back to them at 20 and tell them “sorry” for being such a brat at 14. And they deserve to look at their beautiful family and know love.
Promote love people…. Promote love.
I am asking that all of you check out the following links. Pass the information on. Send them love. Or just say “Hi”. About 50% of the connection process with expectant mothers is through self-advertising. The more people that that know that they are adopting, the better chance of a connection.
If you know of, or meet an expectant mother who is looking to place a child in adoption, please pass along the toll free number (1-888-899-4338), email address (ericandadamadoption@hotmail.com), or the adoption counselor’s phone number (1800-869-1005). Please instruct her to state that she is interested in connecting with Eric Evans and Adam White.
Adoption Profile: http://www.centerforfamily.com/Resources/ericandadam.pdf
Email: ericandadamadoption@hotmail.com
Phone: 1-888-899-4338
Facebook: www.facebook.com/EricAndAdamsAdoption
*Pokes Brain With Stick* 